


Lord Vetinari Has A Makeover Satire

by Goonipers



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humour, Makeover, Parody/Satire, fashion - Freeform, sardonicism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-07-17 22:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16105001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goonipers/pseuds/Goonipers
Summary: After Moist von Lipwig throws down the challenge, Lord Vetinari must change from his usual black to something a bit more extravagant for Moist and Adora's wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

Moist giggled to himself. Adora knew, and disapproved.

 

"What if he doesn't accept?" she asked. Her wedding was in just five days time, and it was turning from autumn into winter. Hopefully, the cruise would honeymoon them somewhere hot.

 

"Oh, he'll accept. He loves being wound up."

 

"More the other way. What if you end up in the dungeons? I'll honeymoon without you."

 

"He wouldn't dare. I'm his golden boy." Moist gulped. "Do you think he'll really?"

 

"No." She blew smoke in his face. "You haven't stepped a foot wrong otherwise. I don't think dressing up like a little girl is his style."

 

Moist admired his top hat in the mirror. They were outside the conference, about to announce their wedding plans. They'd cancelled the University in favour of a more down-to-disc wedding, which was more fitting, given all the hard work he'd done. And they were saving themselves a small fortune.

 

All the better for the descendants. She was pregnant, and the baby breathed smoke. He was getting worried about that.

 

The doors opened. Moist stepped in, holding Adora's hand.

 

"Yes, yes, we're still getting married," he told all the press, and sought out Sacharissa. "We're changing venue for the wedding. We plan it at the station, coming off a train. It's more... fitting."

 

"You're getting married at a train station?" shouted a dwarf reporter. "Hot damn!"

 

"And we can ride off to the reception. We've the route planned. We're going past all the clacks towers lighting fireworks, so we've moved it to the evening."

 

"Is the Post Office, and Bank getting involved, Mr. Lipwig?"

 

"No, no. Just using the Post Office hall for the reception after hours. All the postal clerks would have gone home then... unless they want to join in! The more, the merrier!"

 

Adora dragged him over to Sacharissa, and he repeated the whole thing again. He also added, "I also don't want Lord Havelock Vetinari wearing that dusty, old, black thing any more. I can't stand it. I want him nice and cheerful and colourful -- and so's his clerk, Drumknott -- for the wedding and the reception. I dare him!"

 

The crowd quietened, then oohed him.

 

"Is this right, Ms. Dearheart?" asked Sacharissa, smiling. "Do you dare him too?"

 

"Anything my fiance says, I'll stand by," she said, cigarette not trembling in the slightest.

 

"The challenge is set," said the dwarf reporter, scribbling furiously. "Can we get a photo for the glorious couple?"

 

"Not dark-light," muttered Moist.

 

"Just an iconograph will do," said Adora brightly. The dwarf set up, and took the picture. Everything felt tinny.

 

Moist and Adora saw the picture. Moist looked nervous, and Adora looked cool as ice. They posed for more iconographs, and Moist signed the Bank's tax slip again, having just sorted out taxes.

 

"The challenge is set," repeated the dwarf.

 

***

 

It was dark. The curtains were drawn. He squinted in the light. "I didn't know what else to say," complained the dwarf. He was a spy.

 

Lord Vetinari turned by the window. "I see," he said, steepling his fingers. "You could have destroyed this entire wretched challenge." The morning edition of the newspaper lay unheeded on the desk.

 

"In front of everyone? Prfff. Not likely, sir. You know what Mr. Lipwig is like. Gold hat and tails. Just wear gold or silver to outshine him." The dwarf tipped his head to one side critically. "You could wear grey," he tried.

 

"No. Be with you," he said distractedly. "Do not let me detain you."

 

The dwarf left, and Lord Vetinari opened the curtains, and opened the window. Drumknott wandered through, shuffling paper.

 

"If I may, sir, you could try wearing a suit. I think that they're nice. I might wear one," he volunteered.

 

"I'll have to wear something... unique," he replied. "Otherwise everyone else will try to copy me. I'll start a terrible new line of fashion for the rest of the year. It'll be so embarrassing."

 

"Sir?"

 

Vetinari rubbed his temples. "Why did he have to be so vexing? Trying to wind me up," he repeated. "Hah! He doesn't look so cool in dark-light, does he?"

 

"His girlfriend does. I think it was her idea. She might be the power behind the scenes, sir."

 

Lord Vetinari sniffed. "I rather thought that was _me_ , Drumknott." He went back to the paper, where it was frontline news. "Do I look like a little girl to you?"

 

"No, sir. That was Snapcase, sir, with his dollies. Or one of the others."

 

"Ah, hahaha, I suppose they expect me to wear pink. Get me Vimes!"

 

"Sir? He mostly wears red tights and things. Plumes. He'd be the last person I'd consult with on fashion. Try all the guild leaders and gentry. They hold fashion balls."

 

Vetinari turned from pacing back and forth. "The man wears hats. At least he gets one thing straight."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

***

 

Vimes slouched in the chair. It had been a long night chasing bad people, and he'd failed. He was getting on a bit.

 

At the end of the debriefing, Vetinari said, "Do tell me about hats, Vimes."

 

"What, sir?"

 

"Hats. You wear them all the time. The one with the feather."

 

He came to, spitting. "The plume?! I hate that thing. I hate wearing those bleeding outfits. Sybil, bless her, I love her, makes me wear that revolting thing."

 

Vetinari sat back. "But it suits you. And it's the current rage," he added.

 

Vimes stared. "Why the hell do you want to know?"

 

Vetinari handed over the morning's paper. "I've been challenged. It's quite a dare."

 

Vimes said, "I thought I dreamed this this morning. You're going to refuse, and wear that dusty black thing again."

 

Vetinari looked at himself. "What's wrong with it?"

 

Vimes stood up. "I'll tell you what," he shouted. "When I was drunk, you looked to me like a big, gigantic, hovering, black flamingo! And on one leg." He pointed back and forth under the desk. "It's those skinny legs you've got. You look like you're only standing on one leg with them. It's horrible. Put some weight on. I've lifted you up, and you weigh only about seven stone."

 

Vetinari paused. "I see. I wonder if you could tell me about tights, Sir Samuel."

 

He groaned, and moved about theatrically. "They get right up stuck in your groin, and you can't pull them out publicly. They itch. The codpiece gets jammed under your balls. One ball, if it's you, sir." He calmed down, and sat down again. "Don't make me wear them again, SIR!"

 

Vetinari wiped spit discreetly off the front of his desk. "What would you recommend I wear, Sir Samuel, to the wedding?"

 

He stared, he really stared. "You really want my advice?"

 

"Yes, please." Vetinari leaned forward. "I'm agog, Sir Samuel."

 

"Wear the robe like you usually do. It's long, I don't think you wear clothes underneath it enough in winter; Sybil reckons you need some longjohns, but I don't want to explode the Hogswatch surprise. It's nice and simple and black, like you've got a uniform on, sir." He hazarded a guess. "It brings out the black in your pupils, sir."

 

Vetinari affixed his pupils on him now, and he started to fidget. "I mean, the blue in your eyes. Damn!" His arm wouldn't stop twitching.

 

"I see. You think I should wear my... uniform. That I wear to work every day. Frankly, I wear it because I don't know what else to wear, and it's easy. You don't have to decide with black. Just wear it."

 

Vimes saluted. "Yes, sir. Permission to go to bed, sir?"

 

Vetinari sat back. "Permission granted. Honestly, you're a knight and a duke. I don't have to give you permission any more."

 

Vimes got up, gave the chair a kick, and walked to the door. He subconsciously slammed his twitching fist into the door frame, and plaster floated down. The door still stood, miraculously. He left.

 

Drumknott approached the desk. "If I said I told you so, would you forgive me, sir? Sir?"

 

"Ah. I see. I appear to have learnt nothing at all. I wonder." Vetinari went to the window, and hooked one bare leg over the window frame. He looked at it.

 

Drumknott appeared nervous. "Sir?"

 

"Do my legs look that skinny to you?"

 

"No, sir. You look... slim."

 

"How very flattering. No, it appears a bit skinny and wonky." He got back down again. On the right side of the window.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was the next day. Lord Vetinari was in his coach, attending some guild event with Drumknott by his side as always.

 

He stopped with the traffic flow at Pseudopolis Yard. He rapped on the side of the coach, and the driver slowed.

 

Detritus wandered out, followed by Nobby and Angua. Nobby was wearing a dress, and Vetinari was dreading the day with Carrot he would have to explain he instigated that in Klatch.

 

Nobby spotted him, and saluted quickly. "Sir!"

 

"At ease," called Vetinari. Nobby used to be military, and that was all the way up and down the police force these days.

 

He tried, "What can you tell me about fashion, Corporal Nobbs?"

 

His mouth dropped open. He nudged Angua, who was trying not to laugh. Detritus didn't pay them any attention.

 

"Mister Vimes, sir, he wears dis hat with der plumes in it..." began Detritus.

 

"Yes, I know, but he wouldn't give any tips. I'm stuck deciding what to wear to Mr. Lipwig's and Ms. Dearheart's wedding. Any advice?"

 

"I like cotton, myself," said Nobby. "Taffeta's too revealing. Chiffon, too." He moved on, swinging his handbag.

 

Angua said, "Steer clear of anything Snapcase ever wore, even boots and tight, leather shorts. And don't wear leather gloves either. They're low on cowshide this winter, and sales are through the roof. You won't mind the price hike, but other people will."

 

Vetinari said, "Captain, I don't plan on having people imitate me, no matter what I wear; but I'll take the advice on board. Thank you." He popped his head back inside the coach, and banged on the door. "Drive on."

 

Nobby burst out laughing after they drove on, Vetinari saw in the mirror. He laughed until he was almost sick.

 

They went round the roundabout, and over to where the Bakers' Guild was holding their conference this year. They'd just had their annual bake-off, and the winner was unleashing a cookbook of a selection of breads and cakes.

 

Everyone was going there to celebrate, and eat cake. Lots of it. Vetinari was on a self-imposed diet, going steady for at least ten years.

 

He planned to listen.

 

***

 

The bake-off winner was a Klatchian woman, who made her own My Big Fat Morporkian Wedding Cake, as well as some iced buns, and a raspberry-flavoured mille-feuille during the final. Her name was Nadiya.

 

Vetinari had to serve the first slice of slightly off cake, but had agreed beforehand that he wouldn't eat it. The head of the Bakers' Guild was to do that.

 

Then he shook hands with her, who was delighted that she won, and got to meet him, and flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. He extracted himself, and went off in search of a drink.

 

The head of the Bakers' Guild stopped him cheerfully. "She's good, isn't she?" he said, crumbs everywhere. He swallowed. "What are you looking for?"

 

"Alcohol, generally."

 

"Not like you. What are wearing to Moist and Adora's wedding, sir?"

 

"I don't know yet," he confessed. "Do you have any ideas?"

 

"Something Klatchian, and off-the-shoulder that we haven't seen before, eh?" he was told.

 

"Generally speaking, no. Too cold."

 

"But that's fashion, isn't it? All sacrifice and gain. Nadiya!" he greeted her. "Lord Vetinari loves your cake."

 

"Yes, it's beautiful, isn't it?" she gushed.

 

"It looks like a cake," said Vetinari. "Is this the flower bit on top, hmm?"

 

"But the pearls and the gems, sir. It's the wealth of Morporkia."

 

"True, we have a number of clams that don't explode that give out pearls. Whelks, I believe they're called."

 

Vetinari managed to get the Baker Leader talking again to Nadiya, and nipped off to find some alcohol. He usually drank some, and kept the rest going all night, swirling around the bottom. He never got topped up, not even when he wanted it.

 

He bumped into Dr. Whiteface as events like these drew in everyone.

 

"Hello, sir." Dr. Whiteface kept a straight face. "Did the cake smell awesome?"

 

"Yes, it did. I don't know how it holds up like that."

 

"Cake stands, and so on, sir. It's a feat of engineering." He laughed. "She'll want to join the Guild of Cunning Artificers next."

 

Vetinari got to grips with a wine glass, and swirled it expertly. He stood up.

 

"What do you think I should wear to Mr. Lipwig's and Ms. Dearheart's wedding, sir?"

 

Dr. Whiteface looked at him, up and down. "Black, I should think. Don't you have an assassination suit?"

 

"To be assassinated in? No, I don't think so."

 

"Well, you must have graduated in something all those years ago. I don't recall ever seeing a picture of you without that robe. It's a nice robe," he added.

 

Vetinari smiled. "Yes, it is. But I've been dared to wear something 'cheeky and colourful', and I'm at a loss. Vimes said I should try tights. They bring out the dark shades of my hair."

 

"I'm don't think he said that," said Mr. Boggis, nudging his way into the booze table. "Something about 'the colour of your pupils'."

 

Vetinari sagged. "Yes, it was that. Everyone has dark pupils, though." Were you listening to the whole thing? he thought. "What do you recommend?"

 

"Well, these boxy type of breeches are in fashion at the mo. And big buttoned shirts in Krull colours are in; tropical island, don't you know. It's like wearing a palm tree. Very popular amongst trolls now, so that'll be going out of fashion soon. I think paisley's making a comeback, maybe houndstooth, although that'll be for furniture, and so on. I don't know. We're between seasons."

 

"Thank you, you've been most kind," said Vetinari, sipping his cocktail. "I shall see."

 

Dr. Whiteface stopped him from mingling. "What about make-up?" he asked, wearing a monochromatic clown's face himself.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"All the best metrosexual men wear make-up. Manliner, manscara, man-stick..."

 

"I've never heard of it. Tell me more."

 

Dr. Whiteface puffed up, pleased he could help. "Well, lots of the new vampires came in wearing make-up, and as they discovered non-cool activities, they fostered their make-up onto up and coming humans, exclusively men. Do you have a manbag yet?" He looked him up and down. "Your clerk perhaps? Something to do his paper round in?"

 

"Paperwork round," corrected Vetinari. "No, we lack these 'manbags'." He looked for Drumknott, who waved. He was at the edge with the other staff and secretaries and assistants, watching the proceedings. "Do you think Mr. Lipwig would like a manbag? I could change his present with last minute timing."

 

"No-o. Go with what you've got. It's bound to be expensive." The Vetinaris were known for their wealth... and sanity.

 

"I see."

 

"Are you going to tax him for it?" butted in Boggis. "He's got the whole system rigged up, I'm sure, to _exclude_ himself."

 

Vetinari tutted. "No, he hasn't. I sort of trust him. I hope the whole system works, and everyone pays," he said.

 

Dr. Whiteface continued, "Would you like me to send you a sample, Havelock? I have some on my desk, ready for use."

 

Vetinari thought about it. "Yes, please, Dr. Whiteface. But I do hope I don't look like a clown."

 

They moved apart. Vetinari moved towards the back where some multicultural dignitaries were eating cake and enjoying themselves.

 

He greeted the Klatchian ambassador, Prince Khufurah, who was eating cake. "I do hope I haven't come at a bad time." The Muntab ambassador choked, eating. He whirled around.

 

"Do not creep up on me like that, good sir," he said, voice clipped with accent. It could be rage. Muntab specialised in lamp wicks, oil, and lamps. If the dwarfs hadn't already smashed the market, they would have made a fortune. They also liked chariot racing, and expanding into other countries. Oh, and they made their women wear black veils all over apart from the slit due to religion. Vetinari was not impressed.

 

"Do you like Nadiya?" he asked. "She wears one of your scarves over her head."

 

"The hijab, yes. She has to keep her hair covered at all times," said the Muntab ambassador. "Good cake, too. I only wish she wouldn't be such a public affair, and finds a good husband who keeps her at home."

 

Well, sod you, thought Vetinari. "Women have equal rights in Ankh-Morpork," he said, affecting his voice with a snobbish quality. Over on the other side of the room, Drumknott, who was listening in with an imp earpiece in his ear, winced, and waved frantically to him. He ignored him, and continued, "I fully applaud any woman who leaves the kitchen to join our multicultural and varied workplace."

 

The Klatchian ambassador nudged the Muntab one. "It's back-to-front in Ankh-Morpork. That's how I remember it."

 

"And now, gentlemen," said Vetinari, relaxing a little, although it could be the alcohol. "What do you think I should wear to the wedding?"

 

They looked at him. "You could wear a hijab," offered the Muntab ambassador. "Sometimes men disguise themselves, or if they're third gender." He was nudged again, rapidly.

 

They had a brief talk in Muntabese. It sounded like: 'He looks like one already! He just needs it over the head, and with a slit for sunglasses to hide those eyes.'

 

They went into Morporkian again. Vetinari sipped his drink. "You could wear a white thawb like us to liven things up a little. Or ripped jeans like the chariot racers and pirates. Very practical and fashionable."

 

"I see. Thank you, gentlemen, for your support." He left, giving the Muntab ambassador the V-sign when he wasn't looking or turning round.

 

He met up with Drumknott. "Sir! You cannot say that. It's disrespectful of their culture."

 

"It's disrespectful of my culture!" he sounded off. "He cannot talk about women like that. I made the Seamstresses Guild, and chatted to everyone else to let girls in their guilds. It's taken years to make the public sway to my pressure!"

 

Drumknott cooled him down by fanning him with his clipboard, and letting him down the rest of his drink. And topping it up with Vimes' orange juice, who wasn't here.

 

Vetinari went sailing away again. He hovered near Lord Rust, who was always trendy, despite being in a wheelchair.

 

"Yes? Oh, it's you, man. Out with it." He looked forlornly at the cakes out of reach. Vetinari helped him to some of the wedding cake.

 

"What do you think I should wear to the wedding, Ronnie?"

 

"Havelock." He narrowed his eyes. "Wear red. It's my favourite colour. Vimes' too, judging by those red tomato tights he's always wearing. Doesn't suit his hair though. Why can't that man shave right?" He drank. "I mean, his legs. You can see all the hair poking through. My commanding officer would have a fit!"

 

And he was gay, thought Vetinari, and tried not to titter. "I'm not sure if I suit tomato red. Cherry and raspberry and pink, yes, like my Aunt, but not tomato red. Hmmm. I'll see. Thank you for your time."

 

"More cake!" implored Ronnie Rust, but Vetinari moved on.

 

He sought Downey, who was wearing his usual black suit and white shirt. "Lord Downey, how pleasing to see you!"

 

He turned. "Now what?"

 

Vetinari steered him away. "I need advice, and you're a good man in a top hat and silk scarf. What shall I wear to the wedding?"

 

"You're not taking it seriously, are you? Peppermint?" He offered a sweet.

 

"No, thanks. I haven't lost my mind. I'm playing a game."

 

"That you're losing, because you don't know what to wear. Honestly, wear what you used to wear at school. That grey and purple get up."

 

Vetinari paused. "How did you know I used to wear that, Downey?"

 

"We went through your wardrobe once when you were out. And tried things on."

 

"I don't recall that."

 

"Not 'out' high, being 'out' missing. You didn't show up for class."

 

"Ah, but I did." He smiled. "I was hiding at the back."

 

"We know. You ate garlic one time, and we could all smell you." He smiled. "Didn't know that, did you?"

 

He did. That's why he stopped eating garlic years ago, and turned to simple things like bread. He just didn't know it had been Downey who'd been tipped off.

 

"What do you recommend for fashion tips?"

 

"Wear a starling black suit as you're long overdue. I'll let you get away with a grey tie. It'll suit you."

 

"Hmm." Vetinari visualised it in his head. Didn't Moist von Lipwig already own a jet black suit? He'd been outdone.

 

"I'll think about it," he lied, and wandered off. He met Mrs. Palm next. She was overjoyed... NOT!

 

"Have you met that Muntab ambassador yet, Havelock?" she said. "I had to give him a piece of my mind!"

 

"They're all as bad as each other on women, I think. There's no one progressive like you, Rosie."

 

"If I had my way, they'll all be tied down and spanked." She drank her margarita. She let Vetinari sip at it, for taste. He went back to orange juice, liking it.

 

"It's a good winner's cake, isn't it?" she said. "Very regal."

 

He sniffed. "It was hard to cut. I thought I was going to topple it."

 

"Be nice." She nudged him. They met the cake winner judges, Prue and Mr. Holywood, who'd made a fortune there making cooking shows. He was given a Holywood handshake, which was a big thing on spy reports to receive. Vetinari murmured thanks.

 

They moved off, muttering about moist and texture.

 

Vetinari turned to Mrs. Palm. "What do you think I should wear to the wedding?"

 

She laughed. "Wear pink. I've never seen you out of black, Havelock."

 

"Yes, you have. You've seen me naked."

 

She shoved him, tittering. "Grow up. You need more pink in your cheeks. It'll bring out the blue in your eyes. You won't look so cold and uninviting. You need that. They do coloured iconographs these days in the newspaper."

 

He got nervous. He was going to be in front of the cameras and the press without a single witty thing to say, he was sure of it.

 

He smiled, flashing his teeth. "They say..." he began.

 

He was stopped by Sacharissa and, bizarrely, Otto Chriek, bearing down on them. "Lord Vetinari," she said, reaching for her pencil. "What do you think of the cake?"

 

He made things up on the spot. "Stunning..." he said. "Sheer perfection."

 

"You're quoting one of the judges, aren't you?" said Sacharissa, pencil hovering.

 

"He is," said Mrs. Palm. "He didn't taste it, being on his diet."

 

"What diet?" said Sacharissa. Her head turned.

 

"The non-poison kind, Ms. Cripslock. I don't eat cake."

 

"I'm sure I've seen you eat cake before at Unseen University, sir." She wrote it down. He dreaded it. It'll be in a gossip column in any other rag.

 

"No. You're mistaking me for Charlie. He eats cake. He eats everything, I'm told. We don't match any more until he does some exercise." She didn't write this down. He changed subjects. "I love anything that a young, progressive woman gets up to, including writing her own cookery book."

 

She wrote this down. "We got a good shot of you holding the cake as you cut it. I think you left a fingerprint that someone wrapped up in a slice, and took home. It'll be on the auction houses soon, sir." He didn't know what to say; celebrity culture baffled him. They'll probably be trying to get into his bank account, or forge a passport.

 

Mrs. Palm said, "He's trying to decide what to wear for Moist and Adora's wedding this weekend. Do you have any ideas?" He nudged her.

 

They looked like they were trying not to laugh. "Not black," gulped Sacharissa. "It has to be 'bright and cheerful'."

 

"And fashionable," added Otto Chriek. "Red and yellow mustard cress are in. So's pale, dusty pink."

 

"See, Havelock? They agree with me. Pink, it is!"

 

Sacharissa hid behind her notebook. Otto was already behind his camera, salamanders at the ready.

 

"This isn't dark-light, is it?" asked Vetinari suspiciously.

 

"No, sir. Not unless you vant it."

 

"I'd die for it," said Mrs. Palm suddenly. "I'll pay you."

 

Otto Chriek swapped salamander boxes, and fired it up. He took a picture. "Boo!"

 

The darkness flared and faded. Vetinari tried catching the photo, but Otto was quicker. He flapped it around, and gave it to Mrs. Palm, who paid him fifty dollars out of her purse.

 

"I look all right," she said. "My hair's a mess. You look downright insane."

 

"That's impossible. All my family are sane," he said snobbishly. "How insane?"

 

"Like scared-insane. Like Snapcase before he went mental."

 

"It's just the fashion," he reassured them. "I don't hallucinate, or get delusional. Now where was I? Ah, yes, the glittering future. We have to grasp it with two hands, or otherwise it'll get away. I'm jesting. I'm sane when I make those speeches up. It takes all night sometimes."

 

"Yes, sir," said Sacharissa. She smoothed down her dress which had jumped up again at the chest. She wore those types of dresses that showed off her assets well.

 

"Tell Mr. Lipwig that the challenge is on, and that I have an idea of how to beat him. But I need one last person: Leonard of Quirm. Is that suitable?"

 

"I have no idea, sir. He's a genius, not a fashion designer. It might make you breathe underwater, or fly through the air."

 

"Hmmm. It seemed like a good idea." He drummed his fingers on Drumknott's clipboard, who had wandered over, and appeared to be going through Mrs. Palm's pockets without her knowing it.

 

He went down the clipboard, glancing at all the day's appointments, pretending everything was in order. Drat! He was meeting Mr. Lipwig later at the taxes place.

 

He paid his taxes. Vimes paid his taxes. Even Captain Carrot paid his taxes. A small number of poor people paid their taxes, bless them. Why couldn't everyone else?! He really hoped that the new system where they paid by clacks would work.

 

Mrs. Palm spilled some drink on the clipboard, and he knew she'd felt Drumknott rifle her purse. Vetinari took the clipboard, freeing up Drumknott, in case he had to run for it.

 

He pretended to interview Sacharissa. "When do you and William de Worde, of whom we don't hear much of this days because it's all you, plan on getting married?"

 

He pulled out a small stub of a pencil, and made notes. Doodles, in fact.

 

"I don't know, sir," she said meekly. "You're doing the tone wrong. More light-hearted."

 

"And you haven't asked my age," said Otto Chriek, polishing lenses.

 

"This is for my paper, the Vetinari Chronicles," he said, light-hearted.

 

"Really more light-hearted, sir. Smile."

 

"I like them," said Mrs. Palm. "It's nice to have someone dare."

 

Downey accosted them from behind, and spoilt it all. "Doing your homework, Havelock?"

 

"No, Lord Downey. I'm interviewing Sacharissa. What do you think of the cake, Downey?"

 

"I like the lemon drizzle. Very nice. Lovely and citrusy."

 

Sacharissa made some notes. Drumknott came back, and Vetinari wiped alcohol off of it. He handed back the clipboard, and produced his drink again from underneath. He sipped it, and made a face. It tasted of whatever Drumknott used as poison around the rim.

 

"Excuse me, please." He took leave, and headed towards the toilets where he rinsed his mouth out. He checked the mirror. He looked all right, and not at all insane. Where had that come from? The future?

 

Nah. It was probably just the Lord Vetinari ward. He kept that secret. He shuddered. There were an awful lot of those bastards...

 

He rejoined the party, and mingled with Lady Selachii. She looked okay for fashion, even if she looked like a huge horse with those teeth. It was the inbreeding that his family kept out of. That's probably why they were inbred.

 

"Havelock," she said. "So pleased to see you."

 

"What do you think I should wear to the wedding?"

 

She looked him up and down. "Boots," she said. "I wear mine for mucking out dragons, and they have corrugated metal on the toe caps. Good for shovelling manure out the way. I'll let you talk to Sybil. Sybil! Damn it, where is that woman?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

Vetinari waited patiently. He was due in a meeting next, and couldn't really visit, unless he kept them waiting. The banks would understand. He promised to himself that he would clacks them.

 

Sybil Ramkin nee Vimes loomed up. She was wearing a chestnut wig, and was eating cake. She had a huge slice, and was diving into it with a fork.

 

"Sybil," said Lady Selachii amusedly. "What do you think Havelock would look good in for the wedding?"

 

"Some of Vimes' shirts," she giggled. "He has some that shrunk in the wash, and would fit if he lets me."

 

"I let you," he said plainly.

 

"Really?" they both said. "Truly makeover time?! You've never agreed before."

 

"I used to play dolls and dragons with you," said Sybil happily.

 

"And why, I still don't know. I never know why they picked me for babysitting duty. I'm not that much older than you."

 

"Which is?" purred Lady Selachii.

 

"I don't know," said Vetinari, holding up his hands. "I need something to wear."

 

"Sam has some nice shirts that aren't too badly ripped," said Sybil kindly. "I'll lend you one, but I can't do anything about trousers. You're much taller than he is."

 

"I'll buy some," he said. "What's a good shop?"

 

"How about micromail?" suggested Sybil. "It'll appease the dwarfs."

 

"No," said Lady Selachii and Lord Vetinari together for different reasons. He thought it was too cold.

 

Sybil sighed. "You really need to come with me, and I'll fetch a tape measure."

 

"I'm free," he said. "It's more cake otherwise. I'll leave Drumknott. I think he likes it here. Nice and warm."

 

Sybil put down her cake, and took him by the hand. She led him out to her carriage, 'Whinny If You Love Dragons', and got him aboard.

 

"What are you planning to do with your hair?" she asked.

 

"Nothing. Ah, it's fine the way it is."

 

"You should wear a wig," she said, "to shock them. Try mine." She took it off.

 

He brushed her aside. "No, no, Sybil, it wouldn't do. We have different shape heads." He didn't add: you need it more than I do.

 

He also remembered the advice not to look like Snapcase, who favoured cross-dressing. He shuddered remembering that twisted bastard. He was the one who banned homosexuality.

 

She mistook his shudder for cold, and rolled up the window with the crank. "Dwarf made," she said, and handed him a blanket.

 

He rolled it out over his knees. There were dragon scorch marks in it, and dried blood from Vimes. He lived a dangerous life on the streets.

 

"How is Vimes?" he asked suddenly.

 

"Oh, Sam's Sam. He's still working. I wish you wouldn't work him so hard at night. He comes home at six, and he's out again two hours later. He hasn't caught the gang yet. They murder and r!!pe. I hope he gets them."

 

"So do I. But he keeps his own hours. You need to talk to Captain Carrot about it."

 

"I shall, Havelock." They went up King's Way, where the traffic moved. "Did I tell you about dragons?"

 

"No," he said. "I want to talk about fashion," he added hurriedly. "What goes well with black?"

 

"Well, you have black hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. I think you're a winter woman complexion."

 

"Come again?"

 

"You suit most pinks, cherry red, raspberry, woodland green, a shade of purple, and some light, bright blues. Oh, and mustard cress gold. I think you can get that tint in shops now." She blew her nose. "I did all of this at school in the sixties. Finishing school," she added.

 

"Sounds about right," he said slowly, remembering what his aunt and mother used to wear. He took after them. "I don't think I can get those shades at such short notice. The wedding's this weekend. I think I just need to borrow some old clothes."

 

She tapped him on the knee. "You! You sound like an old witch. You need something new. We're here." She jumped out, and he got out with the cane. She waited.

 

She yanked him up the stairs. Young Sam was toddling around in his room being looked after. She left him to check, then dragged him into the Master Bedroom that she shared with Vimes.

 

There was armour on the chair. There was a hairbrush, and bizarrely, some cardboard under the bed. There was some poking out.

 

He moved it back with his foot, and opened a wardrobe. There was a plethora of blue shirts, some dingy yellows, pinks and greens.

 

Sybil came back in the room, and he shut the wardrobe hurriedly. "There you are. Have a look round. I've got the shrunk ones at the back as there are two rails. Summer's at the back. In case you haven't noticed, Sam's a Spring complexion. It's those eyes of his, and the angry, red complexion that did it. He's always flaring up."

 

"No, I hadn't, Sybil." He opened the wardrobe again.

 

"You're always winding him up," she accused him nicely. That was Sybil, always being nice. "Try something on. Don't be shy, you great booby."

 

"Turn your back, please."

 

"You've got drawers on, haven't you?"

 

"Ye-es. They're grey, so don't be shocked."

 

"So are your socks. We see you walking up steps, don't forget."

 

He took his robe off, over the head. He was wearing a warm, grey vest underneath, and he took that off too.

 

Sybil said, amused, "We thought you wore longjohns in winter. I bought you a nice, pink pair for this Hogswatch. Don't be shy, chop-chop. Try something on."

 

He'd never been naked in front of her before. He kept the drawers on. He tried a blue shirt, and held it up to his neck, and turned to the mirror.

 

"No, doesn't suit you. You're not warm enough, and it makes your eyes look green. Try pink."

 

"No." He beseeched. "Please not pink. It's not feminist enough."

 

"Red, then." He got out tomato red, and held it up.

 

She appraised it. "I think that might work, if you some dusty black trousers with it. I think Sam has some if you don't mind short trousers to try it on."

 

They spent several hours bickering over clothes. Then the front door slammed. "Sybil?" It was Vimes.

 

"It can't be six already," said Vetinari who kept good time, and didn't need a watch.

 

"It's not." She glanced at the mantelpiece. "It's gone two. He's here for his packed lunch."

 

Vetinari tried not to snigger. Sam Vimes marched up the stairs, and he grabbed the black robe. He tried putting it on, but Sybil grabbed him.

 

"We're in here, dear," she called, grinning.

 

Sam Vimes walked in. "Did a hurricane hit, or is it a freak spring cl--" He stopped. "Hello, sir."

 

"Hello, Vimes. Nice place you have here." He held the robe in front of his crotch.

 

"I see you're looking for the tights. They're in that drawer over there. Sybil, can you open it?" Vimes hadn't moved, and his hand trembled by his side.

 

"Sam, stop being so dysfunctional. It's only Havelock. He's here to borrow some clothes."

 

Vimes relaxed fractionally. He looked wound up, and he was bleeding from a stuffed wound that Igor had already treated. He entered the room, and sat atop the bed and the pile of clothing.

 

He took his boots off. Vetinari was glad to see that they were made of leather.

 

"I told you, you had little legs. Didn't I say, Sybil, that he's got skinny legs."

 

"Sam! Not in front of Havelock." Sybil busied herself with putting shirts back on hangers. "Sam, where did we put all your clothes that you don't suit, again? The nice, pale blue one, for instance."

 

He shrugged. "Did we give them all to Carrot for refugees?"

 

She turned. "Sorry, Havelock, but I think it's been a wasted trip. I thought Sam sorted them in with the others." She gave him back his robe; it was creased up. "Hang on a mo, I'll get that ironed for you." She wrenched it back, and disappeared.

 

Vetinari hid behind a shirt. Vimes was looking deadly.

 

"If you've been doing any funny business with my wife..." he began. He raised a hand; it carried his stick, the one he beat people up with.

 

"No, Vimes. I've been having a makeover. We didn't find anything that fitted." Vetinari pulled a sleek knife out of his drawers from a sheath. He held it out. "Steady, Vimes."

 

Vimes lurched up like a drunken lunatic. "You'd better be telling the truth." He thumped him on the arm, and it stung.

 

"You -- ask her. You trust her. You obviously don't trust me, and I thought we got on like a house on fire."

 

"People dying from smoke inhalation, burning, trying to get kids out; sounds about right." He lowered his weapon. He got Vetinari in a head-lock after moving straight towards him, and Vetinari was hampered in by the bed and the wardrobe. "Right where I want you." He let go.

 

Vetinari panted, and rubbed his neck with his free hand. "Vimes, what was that for?"

 

Vimes grinned mirthlessly. "You're in my house."

 

"Ah, you're _scared_. Of what, tights?"

 

"You, you bastard. I have a kid next door, and you're an assassin." Vimes budged an inch.

 

"You're a killer too. You're no saint."

 

"I try to be. I have a kid to raise properly. You don't know what it's like. So we're going to play nicely-nicely. You get your kit back on, get off my bed--" began Vimes, looking up.

 

Vetinari held the weapon low, and kicked at the clothing pile. It toppled onto Vimes' feet, who got stuck briefly. He kicked at the stick, and it went flying and hit the mirror, which shattered.

 

Vetinari looked shocked and guilty, which was his best defence, showing a true sort-of face. He blanked it immediately. Vimes looked pleased.

 

Vetinari tried sheathing the weapon in his drawers, and had to go through the rigmarole of holding the grip, and sliding it back in.

 

When he looked up, Vimes was laughing. He sat on his chair, holding his sides.

 

Vetinari grinned mirthlessly, mimicking him. He sneered, which was the best effect.

 

"So you don't know what to wear," he said, wiping his eyes. "Go dressed like that in the nuddy."

 

"It's a wedding, not an orgy. I don't think Moist von Lipwig would approve." He sat down cross-legged on the bed. "Vimes, help me. I really don't know what to wear. It has to be... unique." He put elbows on knees, and leant his chin in his hands.

 

"What's Drumknott wearing?"

 

"A black suit. He wants me to wear one too so we match."

 

"It said 'colourful'," pondered Vimes. "You can wear some of Carrot's T-shirts if you want. They have equality slogans that Reg made. You can promote 'Free Love'."

 

"I think that the Seamstresses disapprove of free love. They like to set a price. No thanks."

 

Vimes sighed, and scratched at his wound. He dabbed at it with spit. Vetinari winced.

 

Just as he was working on something witty to say, Sybil came back. She didn't notice the mirror.

 

"Here you are, Havelock. Good as new. I see you've been -- what the hell happened? Have you two been fighting?" She looked shocked. She hurried out the room to check on Young Sam, then returned with him in her arms.

 

"This is Uncle Havelock," said Vimes slowly. "He's an assassin like a bad man."

 

"He's going to grow up useless," complained Vetinari. "All the other posh schools discipline that."

 

"He's growing up in a primary and secondary school in the city," Vimes shot back. "He's mixing with real kids like I did."

 

"He's not going to be a Watchman," said Vetinari slowly. "I have plans for him. Ones that don't involve nepotism."

 

"I don't care," said Vimes slowly, matching him. "He's growing up to do whatever he likes."

 

"Playing with poo," said Vetinari, never realising that Vimes was grinning behind that disgruntled face until now. "You got me to say 'poo'." He sighed. "You win."

 

Vimes looked confused. He'd completely misjudged the man. He thought they were speaking 'kid speak'.

 

Sybil said, "If you're not putting your robe back on, you can stay for lunch. Downstairs. Carrot's coming over with Angua." Who would laugh at him again.

 

"You can ask him about the T-shirts," said Vimes, cheerful again.

 

Vetinari shrugged his robe over his head, and pulled it down. He picked up his grey vest.

 

"I'll put that in a bag for you," said Sybil. "Be a dear." She put down Young Sam, who jumped into the clothing pile, and flung shirts everywhere. Vimes scooped him up.

 

He scowled. "Not very familiar with kids, are you, sir?"

 

"I used to be one, so no." He followed Vimes out the room, and down the stairs, leaving behind a big mess, but that was the upper classes for you; lots of servants.

 

He hadn't seen one in the house for a long time. He wondered.

 

There were swamp dragons downstairs. Young Sam got down, tugged one by the tail, and it spewed acid onto the carpet, which ate away to floorboards.

 

He regretted to agreeing. Everything was going to taste of the smell of dragon.

 

Sybil hauled him into the dining room. He was starving, but agreed to himself that he wouldn't have much but water. And a wafer biscuit, which was not cheating.

 

He sat down, and moved a side plate into his main dish. He filled up the wine glass with water from the jug.

 

"Help yourself, Havelock," said Sybil, leaving. Sam Vimes sat down at the head. He had Young Sam on his lap, who began by eating tomatoes as Vimes helped himself to a small meat pie. It was burnt on one side and crusty, and every dish had one burnt offering per plate. For Vimes, who liked it.

 

Vetinari snatched some bread, buttered it, and tucked in.

 

Vimes sighed. "Bread again, sir. When will you learn?" He offered more food towards him. "Here, take it. Honestly, it's like having a fussy brat for a kid." He pushed off Young Sam, and set him in his own place, where he stood up. He went round, and started putting nice food on Vetinari's plates. "This is a bread plate, sir. And this is a fish slice."

 

"I remembered when you used the fish slice as a cake slice," murmured Vetinari, looking at all the food, and willing himself to feel full. He might put on a pound or two. He helped himself; he could stand to put on a pound or two. It was hard shifting it again.

 

His Aunt had taught him about dieting one day when he was small. It never occurred to him to be over twelve stone to do so like she had been.

 

The door opened fully. "Hello, sir! This is a pleasant surprise." It was Captain Carrot. Vetinari spluttered, and put down his fork. He drank water in case Vimes whacked him on the back.

 

"Ah, Captain. How are you?"

 

"Well, we see each other every day, so no change. Yum, Lady Sybil. That looks de-lish."

 

Carrot walked over, and sat down next to Young Sam, who was playing with his food. He piled food onto his plate.

 

"Where's Angua?" asked Vimes.

 

"Powdering her nose," replied Carrot, eating a little corn on the cob. "How are you, Lord Vetinari?"

 

"Fine, fine. Quite well. Tell me, Captain, what do you think I should wear to the wedding?"

 

Vimes said, "I've told him about your T-shirt collection of slogans."

 

Carrot laughed. "Oh, you're serious, sir. I don't wear much over my day off apart from my uniform."

 

Vetinari drawled, "Does it ever come off?"

 

"Only when I go to bed, sir, and have a bath. Then I take it off. It'll be a bit silly not to. Hello, Angua!"

 

She paused at the door. "It smells heated coming down the stairs," she said.

 

"We had a fight," said Vimes. "No harm done apart from a broken mirror."

 

"Did he climb in the window?" asked Carrot, then turned to him. "Did you, sir? Mister Vimes doesn't like that. He's got all kinds of tricky, sliding tiles I helped him put up."

 

"No, Sybil dragged me up the stairs for a makeover."

 

Angua sniggered, and hid behind her hands.

 

"It's this challenge," continued Vetinari, deadpan. "I have to wear something 'colourful and cheerful', and Sybil thought I might fit some of Sa--Sir Samuel's shirts. But they're all the wrong colour for me."

 

Angua shook out her hair. "Did she make you wear fabric swatches on your head?"

 

"No-o. But it came close. I've been here hours. Everyone will be wondering what became of me."

 

Angua came along, and sat next to him. Both Vimes and Carrot held their breath. She helped herself to some chicken.

 

Vetinari speared it with his knife before it touched her plate. She dropped it in shock.

 

"No, no, I've changed my mind," said Vetinari, retrieving my knife. "Don't look so shocked, Captain Angua, it's just--"

 

"--we're not used to it," finished Carrot, breathing.

 

She looked at him. "I'm a werewolf. Stainless steel doesn't frighten me, sir." She gave him a cold look, picked up her plate, and went to sit next to Carrot on the other side.

 

Vetinari smiled at her as she sat down.

 

"No hard feelings," she said, then to Carrot. "Does he always smell like this?"

 

"What?" said Carrot. "Old?"

 

"No." Then she whispered in his ear. He smiled, and looked at Vimes, and whispered in Young Sam's ear. Young Sam reached over to his father's ear, and repeated it. Vimes dropped his loaded fork in shock, and stared at Vetinari.

 

"Yes?" he said.

 

"Bloody hell," said Vimes. He dug in, and ate.

 

Vetinari hoped that he didn't smell scared or insane or stupid. He was used to werewolves in the Palace, and just took her for another successful working woman.

 

Vetinari steepled his fingers. "Do I get to know?"

 

"No," said Carrot, smiling. "Well done, sir." He gave Vetinari a round of applause. He was charismatic, and got away with it.

 

Vetinari went back to lunch, unnerved. He wasn't used to it the other way round. He stifled a burp.

 

Vimes got up. He stood behind Vetinari, who loaded another knife up his sleeve.

 

"Yes, Vimes?" he said to the man behind him.

 

Vimes patted Vetinari on the back like he was a baby. Angua paused to watch. Carrot ignored them, and she tapped him on the hand.

 

Vetinari said, "Stop that."

 

Vimes said, "I'm always looking after you. You just don't eat enough." He loaded up Vetinari's plate again. "Eat everything."

 

"I've got a small stomach," said Vetinari, excusing himself.

 

"Everyone thinks you're anorexic," said Vimes, stopping him. "Tell him, Carrot."

 

"Well," began Carrot. "We're got a care in the community crisis team, if you are... sir."

 

"It's just food; I'm not suicidal, Carrot," muttered Vetinari, shovelling food in.

 

Angua hid in her hands, and started laughing again. "Mister Vimes, he thinks Carrot's being serious."

 

Carrot deadpanned. "I've been getting away with it for years, sir."

 

"We know," said Vimes and Vetinari, although Havelock Vetinari had been more 'we' than 'I'.

 

"How do you put up with him?" said Vetinari, deadpan.

 

Angua shrugged. "I love his sense of humour," she said. "He makes me laugh at the job."

 

Vimes grinned. "So now you know," he said. "It's not a guessing game any more. I've trained him. And he's taking after me, not you. You've got that wretched Moist. What are you going to wear?" he said mockingly.

 

"I don't know. How do you wear the T-shirts, Carrot? I thought you were all into equality."

 

"I am. Every young person is. We want change."

 

"Things did change," said Vetinari slowly. "I got in charge."

 

"We want more change. We want everyone to have rights."

 

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "They have."

 

"We want everyone to go to a school, not a guild, and have the chance to go to university, and earn a degree," said Carrot, who Vetinari knew had been trained by dwarfs and a witch.

 

"What if you want to change jobs?" he continued. "You need to retrain. The guilds frown down on that sort of thing. Look at Leonard of Quirm. He went to loads of schools, and got expelled from most of them." He flashed Vetinari a grin. "He told me what you put him through when he was an astronaut. Building all the traps, I mean. And how you have to go down it to visit him. What a waste."

 

Vetinari drummed his fingers on the table. "What will you have me do, Carrot?"

 

"Talk to the University, and have them open up courses. To young men and young women, and dwarfs and trolls and undead. Sir!" He saluted.

 

Vimes smiled.

 

"I've been trying that for years, trying to get women in, but you go and talk to them, and get turned into a newt for a year. I lived in a glass jar in the Library being tended to by an orangutan apparently." He stared into his shiny knife. "I don't remember much, really."

 

"Right-o, sir. But you're in the best position to have another go. It's been fifteen years now. They didn't know you beforehand, and now they're old and fat. Just feed them, or threaten to withdraw food, that ought to do it." He saluted again. "Sir!"

 

Vetinari waved. "Please, enough of that."

 

"Sir!"

 

He moochily put his head in his hands, covering the earholes. What was he going to wear?

 

"You help me with the wedding, and I'll talk at the University, savvy?"

 

Carrot shrugged. "I don't know much about fashion. I'm not letting you, sir, next to the T-shirt maker."

 

Vimes laughed. "Back to square one, sir."

 

"Honestly, you've known me for years. You can call me Havelock now that everything's open."

 

Vimes opened. "No, it's not. I don't like you, sir. Sybil does, and what she sees in you, I don't know."

 

Angua stood up, and peered out the garden to the back. "She's mucking out dragons." She sat down again, and helped herself to the food.

 

Vetinari picked up his fork, and twirled it into his hair by his temple. He was thinking an idea, but it hadn't come to him yet. He caught Angua looking at him; she was sniffing.

 

"I hope I've made your day," he said coldly. "That should keep your sense of humour going for a while, Captain. Both of you."

 

Vetinari finished, and put his napkin in his chair. He reached across to Young Sam, and played with his celery. "Nice to meet you, young man."

 

"Dog-Botherer," said Young Sam suddenly. Vetinari froze.

 

"Downey told us," said Vimes. "You haven't got much of nickname other than 'cold, one-balled bastard', and Sybil says I can't say that."

 

Vetinari withdrew. He bumped into Sybil on the way out; he was using the back door in case people saw him out front.

 

He flung his arms around her. "They really don't like me," he complained into her neck.

 

"That's because you're holding a knife, Havelock."

 

He gave it to her. "It's one of yours." He composed himself, and forced himself to shake hands. "Thank you for the lovely lunch, and the total waste of time for the makeover, Sybil. It was nice to invite me."

 

"Aawww," she said, taking off her dragon gear. "Come again, any time. I'm sure Sam doesn't mind."

 

"He tried to kill me," pointed out Vetinari. "Ditto. Likewise." He shuffled a foot. "Sorry about the mirror."

 

"If you believe any of that crap, it's seven years bad luck. Have a good time sorting out your wedding costume." She waved.

 

He took off over the fence, and landed in some flowers. He made his way to the front, and hid in a bush until the coast was clear. He took a bus back to the Palace, attracting odd looks from trolls and dwarfs likewise.

 

He met Drumknott at the foot of the stairs of the Palace.

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Sir! Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere." He consulted a scrap of paper. "It says you've been shagging Lady Sybil."

 

"No, I haven't. I've been testing out fabric swatches."

 

"They saw a fight next door, and you were naked, sir!"

 

"I had to take my robe off to try on oversized clothing," he snapped, trying to get up the stairs.

 

Drumknott blocked him. "The robe... it comes off?"

 

"Yes, it comes off. What of it?"

 

"It should come off at the Seamstresses! Sir, you have a suite!" Drumknott tried to keep his voice down; he looked stressed. "You have to meet with Mr. Lipwig at the taxes office soon. We don't have any time to rehearse notes, because he's here now IN THE PALACE."

 

Right on cue, Mr. Lipwig stepped out. "Hello, sir." Vetinari groaned; he sounded just like Captain Carrot. "Is this a bad time?" He looked briefly delighted, before it turned to concern. And it stayed concern.

 

He was faking. He was definitely faking.

 

Vetinari grasped him by the arm, and led him into the museum. "We can talk here, briefly," he hissed. "You're right, I have nothing to wear."

 

"Come on, you're joking. You've got some old suit ten years old hanging around at the back of the wardrobe. It can't just be all black robes." Mr. Lipwig dared to lean across, and finger a section of cloth between finger and thumb. He rubbed it. "Wool, sir?"

 

"No, really. I'm considering wearing a T-shirt reading, 'Undead yes! Ungone no!'," he mumbled.

 

"I didn't take you for the T-shirt type, sir. What about denim blue jeans?"

 

Vetinari snapped his fingers. "Leonard!" he shouted.

 

Moist von Lipwig looked shocked. "Only if you like steampunk, I think, sir." He rubbed his hands together. "Do you forfeit, and you pay my taxes for a year, sir?"

 

"That was not in our original agreement, Mr. Lipwig. It was to be 'cheery and colourful'. I think I can still take you on. But Vimes is not an ally, and red tights and plumes aren't on the menu."

 

"Really, sir? Woohoo! Go for it!" He got a second round of applause for that day. Three, if you counted cutting the prize cake.

 

Drumknott appeared, saying, "His Lordship is feeling tired. I don't think he can make today's meeting."

 

"Drumknott," said Vetinari exasperatedly. "For the last time I haven't been fucking with Sybil Ramkin. I'm not that stupid with Vimes. Man, let go!" He didn't often get out the upper class assassin, but he was getting pissed off.

 

Moist von Lipwig got confused. "Wouldn't Vimes try to kill you if you tried that?"

 

"He got the wrong end of the fashion parade, and tried to kill me, yes."

 

"Fashion parade?" Both Lipwig's and Drumknott's eyes went wide.

 

Drumknott took a deep breath, and let it loose. "Sir, what have you been doing around noon?"

 

Vetinari shrugged. "Having impromptu lunch with Vimes, and two Captains fucking around at Sybil's place."

 

Drumknott looked at him. "So someone 'fucked'?" he clarified.

 

"No!" He threw up his hands. "Can't I have a day off?"

 

Drumknott whispered with Lipwig, looking appalled. Lipwig smiled.

 

"Ye-es, Lord Vetinari," he said. "I think it's possible, but you have to meet with some very important people now." He bowed beatifically. "To discuss... your taxes. You appear to owe us some money. My taxes, for example."

 

Vetinari relaxed. "No, Mr. Lipwig." It was back to games again.

 

Lipwig looked around the museum. "I think I studied some of this at school," he said, kicking an exhibit. "Ankh-Morpork had a very wide empire. They almost conquered Uberwald."

 

"I know. We conquered everywhere, especially trade. I, too, studied Uberwaldean history."

 

"At university level," guessed Moist von Lipwig.

 

"No. Just from the back of the class."

 

"And why is that important?" asked Drumknott, who was making some notes.

 

Vetinari shot him a glance. "You know why. I was assassinating people at fifteen."

 

Moist gulped. "I ran off at fifteen, or younger. I don't know my correct age. I was too busy conning people."

 

Drumknott said, "I wrote a book at fifteen, and tried to get it published. It was about paperclip organisation."

 

"Well, now," said Moist. "We're all from different walks of life. How are all the Dark Clerks at taxes? Everyone pays?"

 

"Almost all of them," said Drumknott. "We're still rounding people up. Not everyone's on the clacks system yet. Some haven't learnt it at all. They have people to do it for them, and they don't trust us with their money."

 

"I trust me with my money," said Moist, becoming jollier. "Do you?"

 

"Ye-es, I think so," said Vetinari, warming up. He switched over. "What are you wearing to the wedding, Mr. Lipwig?"

 

"Just my standard gold coat, and winged hat," he grinned. "I have a cane now that I get to twirl." He tapped Vetinari's black cane. It was shiny black, not dusty black, and silver. "Go on, sir. Give it a twirl."

 

"No," said Drumknott. "He's not in the right mood. You'll probably get a dagger down your chest."

 

Moist sobered up. Vetinari moved his cane like he was about to flick it into the air, but saw Drumknott's expression, and didn't. He sighed, and moved it back. He was no fun.

 

"Well, if that's all," said Moist sadly. "I don't know why I invited you along to my wedding, Mr. Drumknott."

 

"I don't know why I'm going," he retorted. "Oh, yes. Because his Lordship will be there."

 

"I might be having a day off," said Vetinari to Moist, who'd become less stiff. "Don't cause any trouble while I'm away."

 

"Won't, sir." He stepped smartly.

 

Drumknott steered Vetinari by the elbow to the furthest corner of the museum, and had a whispered fight with him. He didn't believe he hadn't been having sex somewhere.

 

He finished by saying, "I've got the picture."

 

"What picture? Ah, yes, dark-light. I looked quite a fright."

 

Drumknott rolled his eyes. "Has it ever happened?"

 

"Does it look like I came back from such insanity? Never!" They lowered voices again.

 

"It could happen," said Drumknott worriedly.

 

"I thought it was the 'Lord Vetinari' ward I was hiding from public knowledge. It preys on the mind."

 

"All of them did, and look where it got them. Insanity! Delusion!" He paused. "Do you think you're Lord Vetinari?" he asked.

 

"No, I think I'm called Havelock. I think I'll remember if my parents ever called me 'Lord'. I was a Mister back then."

 

Drumknott rested on his heels. He'd been whispering on tiptoe. "I was just checking, sir. I didn't know what you were going to say."

 

"Nicely said. Do you think you're my secretary or a tree?"

 

"A tree." He smiled. "I seem to shuffle enough paperwork to create my own slushpile by now."

 

"I have to remember you said that, Rufus. We appear to have created passwords, in case I ever get lost in that infernal place."

 

Drumknott surprised him by hugging him. He checked Vetinari over for knives, and touched metal under his clothes.

 

"You're cold, sir."

 

"I haven't got my vest on, if you must know. Sybil said she'll send it home in a bag. I haven't got it with me."

 

Drumknott clapped him on the back. "Let's get you warmed up, sir."

 

***

 

It was three days to the wedding. Before breakfast, Vetinari decided to -- after stretching of course -- to visit Leonard. The man liked to be about early, or all night, like he did.

 

He checked everything in his diary, including the date, time, whether the moon was waxing or waning, the position of the sun in the sky; whether they'd been past the Sektober equinox, and whether he'd been to the toilet.

 

He put on a robe, and set off. He went in via his empty office, and took three wrong turns, and set the traps off. Darts sailed past, and ricocheted off the walls. Bloody hell, that was close.

 

An alarm bell started. Vetinari continued hopping and skipping down the corridor until he came to a door. He'd forgotten the key. He took out a paperclip, unbent it, and tried to pick the lock as coolly as possible.

 

The door opened before he was finished.

 

"My lord?" Leonard looked sleepy, and he was in his long, flannel nightshirt. "Did something happen?"

 

Vetinari was fresh as a daisy. "I need your help," he said, entering. He saw the unmade bed. "Actually, I'll let you wake and wash," he said pointedly to the chamberpot under the bed. He went back to the door. "I have some fiddling to finish." He closed the door, and closed his eyes. He was not a monster.

 

After about fifteen minutes, Leonard opened the door again. The room was cold, and his foot had gone to sleep. The alarm bell still rang out, shrill, and he had a headache.

 

"How do you switch the bloody alarm off?" he asked.

 

Leonard opened a wall panel, and adjusted some switches. The alarm stopped, and went off again in intervals.

 

Leonard looked groggy. "How many traps did you set off this time?"

 

"Three. All darts. One almost got me." He entered the room, and sat down in his seat after clearing away sketches. He looked at them. None of them were fashion. This was going to be hard.

 

The alarm stopped completely. Leonard shut the wall panel, and the door.

 

"What kind of emergency, is it, my lord?" he slurred.

 

"No emergency. I'm usually up this early. I need to bounce ideas off of you, Leonard."

 

Leonard picked up on something. "What about?" he asked guardedly. "I won't help you kill anyone."

 

"What would you wear to a wedding?"

 

"A suit. Is this a trick question?"

 

"A pity. I only have this robe. I have a whole wardrobe full of them as I don't like deciding what to wear in the morning." He revealed a newspaper. "Read it please."

 

Leonard read the front page. He turned it, expecting more. "So..." he said slowly. "I gather you do not wish to become a laughing stock, sir?"

 

"Precisely. Or I do not wish the city to become a laughing stock. Politics has long arms, and reaches into funny places. And whatever I wear will become fashionable. Other people copy me, savvy?"

 

"Savvy, my lord. People used to mimic my ideas all the time, and take credit for them."

 

"What did you used to wear, hmm?"

 

"Oh, any old thing. Overalls, mostly. It doesn't matter. What matters is your skin tone, and hair, and eye colour. Everything has to reveal it. Fashion rules jump that, and make you wear what's in season." He glanced through the newspaper. "Most of the dignitary wear suits. Ape them."

 

"I don't like suits. They disagree with me. It's all those fiddly buttons to undo when going to the privy."

 

Leonard coughed. "If it's that, I could design a better zip. One that doesn't catch and break the foreskin..." They winced. Someone had tried out a new dwarfish zipper, and made headline news about the resulting injury. It had blown up like a red balloon afterwards. The cartoons had been amusing, but suitable for children in the paper.

 

"No. I prefer robes, but apparently they're not colourful enough. If I wear a colourful robe, I'll resemble a wizard or a priest. Can't win."

 

Leonard drummed his fingers. He turned to his sketchpad. "What do you want to wear?"

 

"A shirt. Not a T-shirt. And trousers without buttons. And boots, I think. I have black Assassin ones somewhere. Hopefully the leather hasn't peeled away."

 

"Hardly a problem. Treat yourself to a new pair."

 

"I like clothing at least ten years old, that's what my brain defaults to," he grumbled.

 

"Go through a charity shop that's got some wear left in it, then," said Leonard. "At least it'll go to a good cause. I believe I can design a shirt at least that's unique." He sketched some ideas, clearly drawing from inspirations. He wore a tinfoil hat to get rid of them.

 

Vetinari looked baffled. He shared some ideas that he'd learnt from the crowd at the Baker's Guild.

 

"So this colour's in fashion? Hmm." Vetinari let him paint his portrait, and check his eye colour against it. "I'll have to print it. I believe I've got half a potato somewhere, but I'll need some fabric."

 

"Not chiffon," said Vetinari. "Cotton, lightweight. I don't mind being freezing. I think most of it's on board a train. I've been given a ticket." He paused. "Do you want to come?"

 

Leonard was shy. "I don't think we've ever been introduced. Was he the thief?"

 

"Yes. A con artist. A very good one that evaded us for years out on the Plains. I can show you off as the fashion designer who inspired me to go to charity shops."

 

"Deal done," said Leonard. They shook on it. "Of course, I'll need a proper suit. Can you get me one?"

 

"I'll have a look in charity shops." The man looked crestfallen. "Of course you can have a suit. Navy or black?"

 

"Black, my lord. Dusty. Not too dusty, however. My overalls got really dusty." Leonard got up, and touched a wall panel. "Do you want to stay for breakfast?" he asked shyly.

 

"Very well. I ate out at someone's house yesterday; I can do social calls, too, you know. Please be nice. I'll be nice to you. We can be nice together."

 

"Yes, my lord." Vetinari helped him with the breakfast things. He set things out on the wonky table, folding up a sketch, and shoving it underneath the leg to balance things up. Leonard lit the grate, and got it roaring up enough to burn toast. He put the filled teapot on the rail. It bubbled.

 

He took it off, and poured in tea to two mugs. He gave Vetinari milk and two sugars. He had black with lemon. He took the burnt toast off, and put them into a rack. They had two each.

 

"Sweet," said Vetinari, greatly appreciated. He stirred his tea. "What flavour is the jam, Leonard?"

 

"Bilberry. It's good for eyesight if you eat walnuts, and combine them as I do."

 

"Ah, walnuts." Vetinari scraped jam across his toast, and ate it delicately, holding up his plate to catch the crumbs. "Mmm. Quite nice. I also have a preposition for you. Now, don't groan. Do you pay tax?"

 

"No, it's rent free, and apparently pay free. I get everything for free, but I would like to be paid in more than patents, my lord." Leonard looked hopeful.

 

"I don't get paid either. I don't sign my own pay-check."

 

"I'm sure one of the clerks signs it." He sighed. "We've had this conversation before. I didn't get paid for saving the world either," he added darkly. "I had to paint a chapel ceiling, as I recall."

 

"Which you thrilled at. And delighted me in doing so quickly. And you came back here."

 

"It's safe. I designed all those traps myself. But I'm getting on a bit. You'll have to send someone to recall the dart traps. And you're getting on a bit too." Vetinari smiled, but this was dangerous ground. "You're not as young as you like to think you are. And not as sexy too. I'll have to adapt the shirt, again."

 

"No, I like it. These parts are in fashion. It looks cold, so I'll take a jacket. I'm not wearing micromail underneath. That's too far. Brrr." He shivered. "Why is it so cold?"

 

"I was studying the birds while you were picking at the damn lock. I always do that."

 

Vetinari looked suspiciously at the roof. "Do you feed them?"

 

"No, they fly. Look." He showed him some drawings. "Little wings full of stripy feathers."

 

"I won't end up with a bird costume, will I?"

 

"Not unless you're a secret furry, sir."

 

"A what? Nevermind. I have to go. Thank you for breakfast, Leonard."

 

"Don't forget the right fabric; I can sew. I have a new machine for speed. And don't forget my suit," he called as Vetinari shut the door. "My lord!"

 

Vetinari sorted out his bearings, and skipped and hopped down the passageway. Halfway down, the alarm went off, and he ducked to the floor out of instinct.

 

"I'm testing the alarm out!" called Leonard down the corridor. "It went wrong earlier. I'm fixing it."

 

Vetinari swore.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was two days later. Vetinari kept making Drumknott stop the coach, as he scoured a new charity shop. The Assassin boots still fitted, but the trousers were a nightmare. Everything in his size was too short.

 

Drumknott laughed. "You'll have to buy something bigger, and take it in," he said.

 

The sales assistant looked him up and down. "Do you think you're Havelock Vetinari?" he asked.

 

"No," they said together. "I'm an actor, and he reads me my lines."

 

"I see," said the sales assistant, and did a good impression of steepling his fingers. "Any funny business, and I'll detain you."

 

As he left, Vetinari complained, "Thanks to newspapers, everyone knows my best lines."

 

"Ssh! Grab a pair of black denim, and buy it. I think he suspects. He looks like he's ringing up the clacks to get a gossip rag in."

 

Vetinari selected denim. "Looks like some hedge clippers went through this lot," he said through gritted teeth.

 

"It's supposed to be like that. It's fashionable amongst teenagers. My nephew's almost one, and I dread the day he wants to cut and dye his hair."

 

"Like me, I suppose?" They were locked.

 

"Not black, sir. A funny colour."

 

"I did that too. Highlights. I had a wild youth. I'm lying," he added. "Ah, teenagers. This will do. It's the one demographic I haven't cracked yet."

 

Drumknott stared. "At least get one without a hole in the crotch, sir."

 

Vetinari switched them. He approached the counter. "This is, ah, for my nephew."

 

"New one on me. All the others had aunts."

 

"I'm an aunt too. I'm a cross-dresser like Snapcase." Behind him, he saw in a discreet mirror, Drumknott put his head in his hands. "How much?"

 

"Five dollars eighty. By cash or clacks?"

 

"Cash." He got out a big, black wallet, and paid. It disappeared into another side pocket. He was handed change. He gave that to Drumknott, and some into a charity jar on the counter. "Keep it," he said.

 

"It's twenty pence. I can hardly afford meals for a month for poor, starving Klatchians on this," he complained.

 

Vetinari took all the change off Drumknott, and put it in the jar, and screwed the lid on tight. He left, and watched the man try to unscrew the jar. He failed.

 

They got back into the coach again with a shopping bag. Inside, Vetinari tried the jeans on under his robe. He stood up, and shuggied into them, swaying with the horses' movement. He gathered up his robe.

 

"What do I look like?"

 

"Like a cold, demented twat," said Drumknott truthfully. "Teenagers will love you. Everyone else will drop dead."

 

"I'm sexy like that."

 

Drumknott looked up to see if he was lying. He grinned briefly. Drumknott said, "You need a gold tooth. I think you need a joke shop next."

 

"Jewellery, I think. I probably need a big, gold chain like dwarfs wear."

 

Drumknott frowned. "Please do not be serious. Sometimes I can't tell."

 

"It needs to hang from here--" he pointed to his belt loop "--to my pocket, I believe."

 

Drumknott paused. "How do you know about this? Gay magazines, perhaps?"

 

Vetinari grinned for real. "I unbanned them, you know. Snapcase outlawed them. All potato print."

 

"Yes, sir." Drumknott didn't like talk much of the old days, when every day was a riot. He'd been born into the city, and every day was a fright. It was like stirring up old memories.

 

Drumknott was not a revolutionary.

 

Vetinari jumped up and down. "Are these long enough?"

 

"Yes, sir. Watch out for your head! You better sit down."

 

"I think they need to be more artistically ripped." He got out a knife. Drumknott went down on his knee, and they ripped the bottom hem up. "There."

 

Vetinari took off the jeans before anyone could see, and the boots, and stuffed them into a bag. He put his regular, old, black shoes on with the grey socks.

 

They went past the Lady Sybil hospital. Vetinari said, "We should stop by the Lord Vetinari ward, and test their reaction."

 

"You're not wearing anything on the top."

 

"I believe most of them haven't gone grey yet. I can take my shirt off."

 

"No, sir. Please don't." Vetinari was manic. It was too much sugar and alcohol again.

 

"Do you think they'll mimic if I do a strip tease?"

 

Drumknott put his hand over his eyes. "Who's given you these ideas, sir? The gods? Magic? Undead? Ghosts?"

 

"Me. I make them all on my own. I'm full of ideas. I'm intelligent to make use of them."

 

The coach stopped. Vetinari clawed his way out with the bag. "Remember our passwords," he said. The driver nodded.

 

Vetinari let himself in via a side door, and when that didn't work, the window. Drumknott followed him. There was an empty, made bed, and a wash basin. Vetinari got changed. He took off his woollen vest, and gave it to Drumknott. It was freezing with the window open. His nipples went erect.

 

"Nice, sir," lied Drumknott. "Real nice. You look absolutely the part." He paused. "It's all robes out there, and board games. Don't upset anyone. Sir, you are not to make anyone cry."

 

Vetinari opened the door quietly. There was a nurse out there, with her back turned. He spotted Cosmo, unless it was a wizard. He was so fat! There were lots of fat ones. He was in a fat clinic, his Aunt's worst nightmare.

 

He was seized by orderlies. "I think, mate, we've got ourselves a sane one here. Visiting old uncle, eh?"

 

"Do I really look that young. Cor, mister."

 

They brushed down his grey chest hair. He had some left. It hadn't all been shaved off.

 

"You -- need -- feeding." A finger poked uncomfortably on his rib. "Nurse! Go get the feeding tube!"

 

"Right away, sir!"

 

Vetinari turned to Drumknott, who was behind the door. "Password!" he hissed. What was the safe word, again?

 

The orderly said, "How much do you think Lord Vetinari weighs, young scamp?" He winked.

 

"Vimes!" he cried. No, that wasn't it. No one would believe it. They were renowned for arguing and fighting. "About seven stone," he answered them.

 

One went red in the face. "Starving yourself, are you?"

 

"No. As a matter of fact, I had breakfast quite early this morning."

 

The orderly checked his watch. "Bingely bingely beep!"

 

"It's well past noon," he said. "Lunch time!" Vetinari turned to see a nurse approaching with Mossy Lawn, a big bucket, a rubber hose, and a bottle of mashed up food. They held him down on a chair.

 

Vetinari didn't struggle. He could talk his way out of this. They forced his jaw open, got in the rubber tube down his throat, and poured in liquid nutrient through a funnel. He felt uncomfortably full, and gagged.

 

He heard someone hiss, "Password!" from the opposite room to where Drumknott was. So they knew about that too. Damn.

 

He gagged again, and they took the tube out. Dr. Lawn sighed with relief.

 

"Mr. Ripped Pants is new," he said. "Naughty, you haven't been checked in yet." Mossy Lawn examined him. "He's even got the scars in the right place. I think he's been self-harming."

 

"How do you know where the scars are?"

 

"From seamstresses," said the orderly. "They talk and draw patterns."

 

Vetinari drummed his fingers on the side of the chair, then someone injected him. He fell forward; he didn't expect the haze to kick in so soon.

 

"What was that?" he slurred. "Heroin?" He lifted his head.

 

Dr. Lawn examined his reflexes. "I don't think he's an assassin."

 

"No," said Vetinari. "I used to be a revolutionary. I unbanned all the anti-homosexuality laws."

 

"He's nice," said Dr. Lawn, who'd never married. "Put him down carefully."

 

They carried him to a bed, and strapped him down. He turned his head to the window, and hallucinated underneath the drug about rainbows. And, later, Vimes. He featured a lot too. He couldn't get rid of him.

 

"Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? We have Angua. Mossy Lawn says he's very sorry. I said it wouldn't work," said Drumknott's voice.

 

"At least he got a good meal. He's really underweight," said Mossy Lawn's voice.

 

"See?" said Vimes' voice. "You CAN count all the ribs. People think I'm making it up."

 

Bloody damn blast Vimes, and his anorexia theory. He'll show them. He'll scarf an entire chocolate cake, and put on seven pounds overnight.

 

Oh gods, he'd spotted Carrot. This wouldn't go down well. He turned away. He'd liked Carrot, all innocence and double entendres. He was planning on making him Patrician after he'd retired.

 

"How was the meal, sir? It said chicken soup on the menu with lovely, mushy vegetables." That was Carrot. "Sounds heavenly."

 

"Carrot," said Vimes. He flickered in and out of view. "Go get the man a sheet or something to cover up those nipples."

 

"I've got his robe," offered Drumknott. He turned to the others. "Believe it or not, he thinks he's sexy."

 

Vimes laughed until Angua said, "He is, and he smells it. He's got that confidence."

 

"And power," said Carrot. "What?"

 

"He's too thin," said Vimes. "He really needs to stay here, and sort some things out. Why else would there be a 'Lord Vetinari' ward, hm?"

 

"For people who think they're him. We've had a few. We've got about a dozen. They play board games most days," said Dr. Lawn.

 

"How boring," said Lord Vetinari from the other side of the room. Vetinari hoped it was him, the very first one. He'd been entertaining. He'd merely embezzled from the Vetinari cash flow, pretending to be a long lost relative.

 

"I'm a bastard," he continued. "No one, hmmm, believes I'm related."

 

A group of Lord Vetinaris congregated behind him. It was like being approached by the walking dead.

 

That's what Vetinari dreaded: all of them turning into zombies. It was better to suck the life out of them alive with some gentle exercise and diets.

 

Sam Vimes pushed Vetinari out through the double doors, and led him to the ground floor exit. The others followed, but not the Lord Vetinaris, who were held back.

 

Before they got to the door, however, Vetinari -- who was not known for bursts of emotion -- flung his arms around Vimes, trying to stem a breakdown.

 

"It was, ah, dreadful in there, Vimes. Thank you so much for rescuing me." He withdrew, and pretended that nothing had happened. He went quiet.

 

Vimes panted. "Don't do that, again, Vetinari!" He shook a finger at him, and turned, and hit the doorway of the outer door.

 

Vetinari waited until dust had settled before he left. To his amazement, Angua was trying to hold his hand, and Carrot had hold of his arm on the other side. They propelled him to his coach, where it was decorated by sunbeams and buttercups. That had been some strong drug he'd been injected with.

 

Carrot managed to get the door open with Drumknott, and they hauled him in. It was like going in an old Watch's hurry-up wagon. Carrot got in with Vimes, and they squeezed in either side of him, holding him upright. The door closed, Angua barked, and it opened, and they got her uniform in.

 

A large blonde wolf got in, and jumped up next to Drumknott. She looked at him, panting. Her tail didn't wag.

 

"Drive on, my good man," said Carrot with his head out the window. To Vetinari, he drawled: "Do you want 'Care in the Community' or not, sir? We do rehab, where it's Detritus outside the police cell with a large truncheon should you try to get out."

 

"No, thank you, Captain. I can take care of myself."

 

Carrot hesitated. "Was it drink or drugs that did you in, sir?"

 

Vetinari swallowed his tongue. "Neither, Captain. It was climbing in the window wearing wet jeans. I believe that your assistance is not needed."

 

"Who were, if you don't mind me asking so, were all your relatives?"

 

"They're imposters!" burst out Drumknott. "He has lots of them. Like Cosmo Lavish, he's in there."

 

"Ah," said Carrot. "I see." He steepled his fingers.

 

"Don't try it," warned Drumknott. "He's in a foul mood."

 

"You didn't see him down the stairs," growled Vimes. "He came full on."

 

"Do not let me detain you," said Carrot blankly. "Throw the mime artist in with 'Learn the Words' upside-down. Whatever has the mime artist ever done to you, sir?" Realisation dawned. "Whatever happened to Charlie? Is he in there?"

 

"He's useful," said Drumknott sharply. The coach turned a corner, and they all leaned into one another. "No, he's not. His Lordship wished to... entertain the ward with a... strip-tease, I understand, my lord?"

 

"Sir?" asked Vimes, aghast.

 

"We could stop at the Strippers' Guild, and ask what is best to wear for a wedding...?" suggested Vetinari.

 

"No," said everyone, Vetinari included.

 

Carrot fanned Angua with his notebook. She whined, and looked like she was smiling. At the next set of traffic lights, before the junction, he let her out, gathered up her uniform, and got out himself. "If it's no trouble, we'll get out here," he said, leaving.

 

The coach door closed, owing to an unevenness in its hinges. It automatically locked.

 

Drumknott asked, "Are we over this nonsense now, sir? You have an outfit planned. Gods know what'll happen if you actually wear it."

 

The coach rolled on. Drumknott continued, "You also require a 'black suit' for Leonard of Quirm in case he attends too, as your 'fashion designer'. Sir?"

 

"He's been struck by inspiration," said Vetinari, feeling light-headed. At least the rainbows had stopped.

 

He snuggled next to Vimes, rather than move over one seat to give him room. Vimes gave him a weird, pissed-off look. Vetinari was still going on old books and doctors' manuals on how to stem off breakdown. He felt sure this was what the dark-light photo was telling him about. He looked really off-kilter in that. He shuddered.

 

"I appear to be at a loss," he murmured. "How unfortunate."

 

Vimes said, "Will you stop that silly way of talking, Vetinari? They all talked like that in there! I'm sending you back. Angua obviously picked the wrong one." He stood up, furious.

 

Drumknott tripped him over, and he fell sprawling over Vetinari, and got off him pretty darn quick.

 

Vetinari moved over to the other seat, and away from the middle. Vimes had been really thin, muscular, and heavy. So had the armour. It had left a dent in him.

 

Drumknott said, "Are you going to meet your afternoon appointments, sir, today?" And the unspoken words were: are we going to cancel? Drumknott didn't change, which was refreshing.

 

Vimes changed three times a minute, usually to a boiling rage. He was getting wound up. So was he. And Drumknott. The three of them could cause Ankh-Morpork to implode.

 

Vetinari sniffled to himself, and huddled in the corner. Any minute now...

 

He sneezed, and surprised himself. It must be the wet-look jeans. He was pretty sure the blue denim was dyed that way, but they were cold.

 

"I want my robe back please," he said huffily. Drumknott got it out, shook it, and handed it over. He changed, and put the jeans into the shopping bag. He checked all his pockets; yes, he had his wallet.

 

Vimes was watching him, looking puzzled. "I didn't know you carried cash," he said accusingly.

 

"I went shopping today," he stated. Vimes confused him sometimes. Why wouldn't he carry money? This was Ankh-Morpork, richest city on the Disc.

 

Vimes balled his fists. Drumknott watched alarmingly. Vetinari sighed. He made a mental note to wind Vimes down later, lest he wind down all at once and hit the bar. Or the club, which was an amusing image. Vimes in a gay dwarf club, dancing.

 

Vimes said, "You're being awfully quiet, sir," to Drumknott.

 

He who got out a pencil. He ticked off something on his clipboard. "Well done, Sir Samuel, you spoke to me. Have a gold star."

 

The coach bumped into the Palace courtyard. Vetinari tried to stand up, and slipped. Vimes sighed.

 

"I'm not going up seven flights with you," he growled. "You're staying downstairs. I'll fetch Corporal Dorfl. He can carry you up." To Drumknott, "Do you know what they injected him with?"

 

"No, sir. Some type of plant hallucinogen, I understand. He's going to be dippy for a few more hours."

 

"Dippy?" murmured Vetinari. "I have work to do! I have people to clacks!" He smoothed back his hair, wondering how it all stuck up on end in the dark-light picture. His hair wasn't that long.

 

He fainted.

 


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up being bumped around on a terracotta shoulder up some stairs. He didn't know which flight. 

Drumknott was walking on ahead; he could hear or sense nothing. He forced himself to relax, and not to cry or anything stupid. He really wasn't sane. He promised himself that he would clacks his Aunt and his ex. 

Downstairs, or down a flight, Vimes -- from the sounds of shouting -- had exploded. He sounded like he was arresting heads of state, and guild leaders, and having a blast.

Having just woke up, he struggled to get down. He could walk --

\-- he couldn't. Someone grabbed him by the back of the robe before he fell down the stairs, and picked up him up.

"You can't do that, sir," said Dorfl, throwing him over his shoulder. "I have my orders from Mister Vimes." Vetinari looked down. The golem's feet were too large for the steps, and he could overbalance. 

He tensed.

***

Vetinari was drumming his fingers and thumb on the golem's back when they arrived at his apartments on the final and seventh floor. He was let down gently and firmly on solid ground.

"Thank you, my man," he said. "Corporal, dismissed!"

The golem saluted. Vetinari wasn't feeling up to it, and almost saluted back. He'd had enough. 

He went back to his rooms, and found the shopping bag on the bed. He hid it. 

Vetinari strolled into the bathroom to find someone had drawn him a hot bath. He took off his clothes, and got in. His skin went blotchy red. He slipped his head under the water, and almost drenched the floor. It wasn't a washing bath, it was a soaking bath, fit to soothe aching muscles. 

Drumknott knocked on the open door. "Sir? Dr. Whiteface sent you this strange 'man-bag' package. Sir, are you all right?" His voice was full of concern, and tinny from being underwater.

Vetinari pushed himself upright, and breathed. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm relaxing. I haven't just drowned."

Drumknott said, "What is a 'man-bag'?"

"I almost really don't know. They're new, apparently. Does it contain manliner?"

"I haven't opened it. It's addressed to you, in strictest, secret confidence."

"Ah, so it is. I shall have to practise!" He stayed in the bath. "Go," he said languidly. 

Drumknott went.

***

Vetinari got back into an old, ratty robe, and got into bed. It had gone grey from so many washings. He piled paperwork from the bedside table into small, rectangular piles over the bedcover, and tackled one at a time, using a clipboard, and pen. He splashed ink everywhere.

To his amazement, Drumknott brought the manliner package in with Dr. Whiteface. This was a bit much.

"Come to check on me to see that I haven't died, Dr.?" he asked sarcastically.

Dr. Whiteface took a step back. "I didn't want our little surprise to fall into greedy clerk hands," he said. "You know what the spies are like for dressing up."

Vetinari opened the package using his letter opener. He levered open the flaps. There were some tubes of concealer in there. 

"I tried to match your skin tone, but you'll have to do it. I've left instructions on how to apply it best."

He hesitated, and walked towards the bed. He reached out.

"Got your nose," he said nervously, and plucked at it. He showed him his thumb tucked under his finger. 

"If this is some sort of test," said Vetinari, "it hasn't worked. I'm baffled." He shook his head. "I don't know what the world is coming to." 

Dr. Whiteface smoothed down his little, black buttons, and smiled. "There's rumours that you've gone insane from trying to meet the challenge, Havelock."

He continued, "Moist von Lipwig doesn't know where to jump next. He says he's never intended for you to go round the bend. You were spotted leaving the Lady Sybil worst for wear. Been drinking, have you?"

"No-o. I was... poisoned with a plant hallucinogen. It's been chirping bluebirds and giddy rainbows for the past few hours. It wears off, I'm told."

Dr. Whiteface clarified, "You're high?!" 

"Not through my own hand, I assure you." He didn't add he was force-fed too. 

"You'll have a hangover for the wedding."

"I'm sure I'll survive. It's been years since anything like this has happened."

Drumknott hurried to stop a pile of paperwork from slipping off the bed. His eyes landed on the package's contents. He stopped, and the paper toppled to the floor. He got down on his hands and knees, quietly.

Dr. Whiteface clapped his hands together, and laced his fingers. "You're not wearing a dress, are you? My... package will look hideous if you are. I tried all natural tones, nothing cheerful or foolish." 

Vetinari's eyes narrowed. "No. Not a dress. A unique creation, hopefully. I want to appeal to the masses."

"Of teenagers," murmured Drumknott.

"What's that?" Dr. Whiteface helped him up. "It'll be a surprise then." He left. "Good day, Havelock."

Vetinari waited until he had left completely. Drumknott shut the door, looking pale. 

"Why did you let him in?"

"They had a vote downstairs about who to let up. He was voted in, as he said he had something for you. I had to fetch it out the mail."

"Everyone's downstairs? I heard Vimes."

"He hasn't done anything but shout. He said you've been drinking. I said you've been drinking. You wanted a day off." Drumknott shot him a glance. "And you were drinking beforehand at that conference." 

"Not so's you notice," said Vetinari, forgetting who he was quoting. Mostly, people used the 'party animal' quote referring to him. He had forgotten why.

He got out of bed, disturbing piles of paperwork so that they slid into each other. He stood up. Drumknott hung back, nervous. He went to the wardrobe, and pulled on a better robe on top.

He admired himself in the mirror. He went to the door.

"No, sir," said Drumknott, closing it with his boot. "You're not to go interrupting."

"They're voting in Moist von Lipwig as we speak, Drumknott," he stated. 

He slid around in his socks. Drumknott caught him, and he stood up, prouder.

"Let's dance," he said.

***

He found Vimes outside the Rat Chamber where the sounds of a meeting had reached theatrical fever pitch. 

"At ease, Commander," he said. He put his hand on the door. He paused. "Who's been voted in?"

"No one yet. They're all arguing about the wedding. Moist's not in there. He's downstairs running the city, and throwing rings over the press. We all said you're drunk. They reckon the pressure's gotten to you." Vimes glared. "Don't do anything... girly, sir, like hug or cry."

"I will if you'll stop being sexist," sighed Vetinari. "No hugging, no dancing, no crying; got it."

"Dancing?" asked Drumknott, catching up. "Political, I hope, sir." He threw Vimes a look of sheer relief; Vimes recoiled.

"What's up with him?" 

Drumknott answered, "He's got hold of make up."

Vimes said, "Not so close to the doors." He looked Vetinari up and down. "City got you running about in your socks, sir?"

Vetinari flung open the doors, and strode in. There was automatic, chilly silence, and not coming from him.

Lord Downey had taken the chair. "Havelock, ignoble, so glad to see you." He bowed, and got up again quickly. "You've been seen... undignified."

"I've got no shoes on, if that's what you mean."

The committee, as one, looked to the floor. He was in grey socks. Vetinari sighed, exasperated.

"You lot all get drunk," he accused them.

"But not," said Mr. Boggis, "during working hours. We have a city to maintain, sir."

"Thieving," said Vimes from the doorway. "Must be light work."

Mr. Boggis ignored him. "Lord Downey, read him his rights."

"I'm under arrest?!"

Lord Downey paused. "Are you sure you're not Charlie, sir? You're a little outspoken."

Vetinari forced himself to sway. "I'm a little... drunk," he said.

"I thought it was poison that you hallucinate on?" said Dr. Whiteface mildly.

"It's both. It was in the alcohol. I've been too safe," he made up on the spot. "Ladies, gentlemen, please forgive me. I've become complacent." He pinched himself. "At least I'm alive."

"True, true. Why didn't you sick it up, knowing you've been poisoned?" he was asked.

He shuddered, thinking of the force-feeding tube that he'd gagged on. Which way to go?

"I did," he said simply, thinking of how those poor, demented Lord Vetinaris kept themselves thin, some of them. Some of them were just... large and loomed. "Once I knew I'd ingested some."

"Where was this?" asked Mr. Slant suspiciously. 

"The Bakers' Guild," said Vetinari, remembering where he'd last encountered poison, off Drumknott's bloody back of the clipboard. 

"You were sighted offering a lot of money to charity before you settled on the Klatchian Fund for Lost Street Children," continued Mr. Slant. "Ten dollars, I believe you donated." He turned a page. "Would you care to explain that?"

"He was feeling generous," said Mr. Boggis suddenly. "I always pay about twenty pence." He winked. 

"I felt sure we were being discreet."

"Then to where, the Strippers' Guild?" said Mr. Slant. He was not amused, but that comment caused hubbub.

"Havelock," began Mrs. Palm, but was interrupted by Miss Va Va Voom, the president of the Strippers' Guild.

"We haven't seen him," she said, sticking up for him. "That's just a rumour."

"I'm sure we heard Captain Carrot and Ms. Delphine Angua talking about it. You threatened to go."

Vetinari said, "I value every guild leader's opinion on what to wear to a wedding. I was stuck for ideas." It seemed best to tell the truth. He lit it slip.

People studied him. "Hmm," said Downey. "We think that you shouldn't go. It's obvious that you forfeit. Mr. Lipwig told people you were stuck."

"In a rut," added the ArchChancellor. "You've still got that bloody black thing on. We hoped you'd start wearing fashion as part of the build-up." He got a 'hear, hear'.

Vetinari lifted the robe up by the hem. "I'm wearing a grey robe underneath," he said simply. He let it fall.

"Grey, black, what's the difference. If you're going to go loopy, it's best to go out with a bang, Havelock, that's what I recommend," said Mustrum Ridcully.

Downey sighed. "I'll lend you a suit."

"No, I've got something pulled together. I'll wear that. It's cheap for the masses to produce," he added.

"You got it out a charity shop, you bastard," said Vimes. "It's already mass manufactured."

Vetinari coughed. "It's hard trying to find something to fit my size. I'm too tall."

"Use a tailor," snapped Mr. Slant. 

"No time," he replied smoothly. "I've only got one day left." He paused. "Are we really all talking about fashion? I'm not completely with it." He eyed the wobbling axe in the middle of the table where Vimes had hit it all those years ago.

He turned. Vimes had his hand pressed against the wall. He nodded.

He turned back. "Is everything moving?" he asked.

"No, that's just the drink. Or the poison. You're swaying, old chap," said Ridcully. 

Vetinari forced himself to stand still. He went over, and looked out the window. There appeared to be a crowd moving. He groaned inwardly. One drink before he got force-fed, and that was it! 

He could see Moist von Lipwig, all gold in a sea of moving postal golems. They were marching again. The trolls had joined in. He turned on his heel.

Ridcully had his finger held up, checking magical winds. "No, nothing," he said. There was a sigh of relief.

His brother, Hughnon Ridcully, said, "Nothing from the Gods. Of course, there's a game on, but it's Lady Luck in charge of the board." Overhead, they all heard the sound of dice clicking together, and all of them, together as one, went quiet. 

"I hate it when they do that," said Vimes. "Why can't we stop them?" 

Vetinari went to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, and poured himself a stiff brandy. He swallowed some. 

"Er," said someone from the back. "I think it's bad luck to mention the Lady's name."

"And to break mirrors," added Vimes, glaring. 

Vetinari remembered in time that he was due to clacks his Aunt and Lady Margolotta. They might miss him in the papers over the wedding. He had a feeling he was going to die.

He put the brandy atop the drinks cabinet. 

"I say, Havelock, old boy," said Lord Selachii. "I think you've had enough." They all noticed him, and stopped shivering.

"That was a waste," muttered Hughnon Ridcully. His brother nodded. The air cleared.

Vetinari said mildly, "There's a crowd outside."

"And you're going down there drunk," sighed Mrs. Palm. She threw up her hands. "When will you ever learn?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don't do anything stupid in front of the press, like forever steeple your fingers or raise your eyebrow. People remember you like that."

"And don't wear a Muntabese hijab, either," said someone at the back. "We had reports of that too."

Vetinari picked up his drink; he wetted and rimmed the glass so it sounded. He sipped at it. It warmed him. Two robes hadn't done the trick. He needed at least three, which was how he survived winter.

"I'll stay here," he volunteered. It was cold out. Besides, he loved watching people tense.

"Good show," said Ridcully, one of them. He wasn't paying attention. He drank the brandy, and tipped the glass up. The presence overhead passed.

Vetinari was left wondering what the hell was he thinking. Exactly whose prayers had just been answered?!

He put the glass down on the oval table. "Quite sorry about that," he said brightly. He had a feeling he was going to sway for real soon.

Mr. Slant got up. He went over to the drinks cabinet, and pushed the doors shut with zombie strength that they wedged together. He passed Vetinari. "No more of that, sir," he said. He sat down. "I think we ought to offer Havelock Vetinari a seat."

Vimes got him a spare chair, and he sat. People were craning their necks to look at him. 

Lord Downey said, "Havelock, you're being charged with being drunk and disorderly." People agreed with him.

"For being poisoned," Vetinari stated. "You're mad."

"We only have your word. We heard from everyone else you were walking around topless and singing." In the corner of the room, Vimes put his helmet over his eyes, and stood to attention.

"In public, Havelock. Have you no shame. It's daytime. Children could have seen."

Mrs. Palm asked, "What was on the bottom half?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What was he wearing on the bottom half if he was topless?"

"Trousers, allegedly. Badly torn from climbing over fences and rooftops." He consulted a scrap of paper. "And from scaling the wall at the Lady Sybil hospital."

Mrs. Palm gave Vetinari a sarcastic round of applause. "Well done, you can wear trousers. What colour?"

"Dark blue, apparently. Is this part of the surprise, Havelock?" Downey was talking to him like he was a little kid.

"I believe so. They're cheap." He added, "And they had a crotch."

They stared at him. "What was the shop you were in? Did it sell... leatherwork?"

"There was a leopard skin catsuit in the window. I could have worn that." He wanted to swear, technically. 

"Right. And this is suitable attire for a public wedding, Havelock?"

"I believe not," he admitted. They relaxed. He was being to think his other ideas wouldn't pay off. 

"I think we have an anticlimax," said Mr. Slant, shuffling paper. "No dress, no horse councillor, and no chopped off people's heads. One drunk bastard trying to BDSM his way through a wedding. Am I clear?"

"Havelock," said Lord Downey. "We're just wearing suits. Your Dark Clerks wear them sometimes. Drumknott's got one; we caught him trying it on the other day."

"You did what?" asked Drumknott. "Sir?"

"What's this?" said Mr de Worde, handing over a paper. It wasn't 'The Times'. It featured as a side article that wretched dark-light picture of him and Mrs. Palm, with her cut off. He looked half-mad in black and white. 

"That's not me," he lied. "It's an imposter."

"It's dark-light. It's supposed to show up the truth. Moist von Lipwig posed for one the other day. He looks scared, and his wife-to-be looks cold as fuck."

"Yes, I believe I look somewhat scared. How do you get all the hair on end like that?" He brushed up his own hair backwards. "Mine's too short to do that." He smoothed it back down.

"Presumably when you've let yourself go. There's a beer bottle next to you, or something."

"I think it's brown sauce," said Vetinari, relieved. "If I understand it correctly, I've already gone through this."

"You drank brown sauce?" asked Downey. "When?"

"When that wretched dragon took over the city, and I was trapped in the dungeons. And, no, I did not drink brown sauce. It was bedlam in there."

They considered him. 

Vimes said, "I'm not arresting him." 

"Sir Samuel, we've been over this. He needs to spend a night in the cells to knock some sense into him. You do it to everyone else."

Everyone else who had been drunk and disorderly at some point nodded. 

"We knocked some sense into him the other day over lunch. Carrot did that."

Vetinari looked down at his socks. He had a hole growing in the little toe on his right foot. He stepped on it. He looked up.

Downey asked, "Is this true, Havelock? Someone brought you to your senses?"

"Ye-es," he lied. It had almost given him a breakdown. Carrot had been his weirdly innocent friend.

"It's not enough," said Mr. Slant. "We must have justice. I think you've been lying." He sighed, and a moth flew out. "Did you try to commit suicide?"

"No. And it's not against the law any more. I saw to that."

"Did you murder anyone?"

"No. I don't think I've ever murdered anyone. It's always been for pay." He shrugged. "And politics." He flashed a grin. 

"Theft? Embezzlement? Fraud?"

"No, none of those. Mr. Lipwig did want me to pay his taxes though, as forfeit."

"Yes, he said you refused. What are you guilty about?"

"Ah... nothing?" He checked his expressions. He didn't have guilt in there, did he? He checked, and he did. So he went blank, and hid them all. The last time he'd tried guilt... was at Vimes over the mirror. So it had been hiding there, all the time, on display for people to read him. Aah, gods.

He put on a new face: worry, resignation, and drunken happiness. Let them read that.

Mr. Slant looked up. "Gods, I hate it when you do that." 

"At least you look happier," said Downey, who'd been his chief bully at school. That would piss him off.

Vimes had been behind him the whole time, and missed the whole face re-shuffle. Pity. So had Drumknott, who'd seen it privately several times before.

He steepled his fingers, and placed his hands sideways in his lap to please himself. Life was quaint.

Mrs. Palm giggled. "Well done," she said, as the table began to break up. People got up, and chairs scraped back. "Got away with it again."

Drumknott raised a hand. "Please, sir, I know what he's been doing."

"Drumknott, no!" he shouted. Please don't let it be over fucking again.

People froze. Mr. Slant said, "Yes?"

"He broke into a mental health hospital with the intention of winding up the patients there," he admitted. "I was there, trying to hold him back."

"Breaking and entering," muttered Slant. "That should do it. Vimes, arrest him!"

Vetinari turned in his seat, and glared at him. He motioned to him. 

"I'm not arresting him. I was there, and I got him out with Captain Angua. He even tried to hug me, he was so pleased. They mistook him for Cosmo Lavish."

"Bloody hell," said Mr. Boggis. "He must have slimmed down a notch."

"Or someone like him," said Vimes, ploughing on. "He showed up half-naked."

"Gave him a sponge bath? Medicated him?" asked Dr. Whiteface, amused. 

Vetinari scowled. 

Mrs. Palm burst out laughing. "So's that how you spend your free time, is it? I'll have to revoke your membership." There was weak laughter.

Vetinari tipped his head on one side. "I'm not asexual with myself, if that's what you mean."

Drumknott went quiet. He'd gone red. 

Vetinari said, "We can come and go as we please there, usually with someone else in tow, so it's not breaking and entering, Mr. Slant."

Vimes patted him once on the shoulder. That was it from the king of affection. Promote the man to glory, and what did you get, a pat.

Mr. Slant said, "Very well. This afternoon was a waste of time. Meeting adjourned." People got up to leave this time for real.

Mrs. Palm was still laughing. So was Dr. Whiteface, trying to keep deadpan. The Ridcully brothers were chuckling.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Drumknott after most people had gone. 

"That's all right, lad," said Vimes. "You told the truth."

Vetinari looked at his jammed drinks cabinet. He'll have to get someone to repair that. 

Mustrum Ridcully slapped him on the back, and he almost fell off the chair. "Well done, Havelock. Knew you were guilty of something. Written all over your face."

Had it been in every expression slot with that drug in his system? Fuck, that would be embarrassing. 

He got out his handkerchief, held it over his mouth, and swore into it at length. There, he felt better. 

Vimes looked alarmed. "I thought you were going to be sick," he hissed. "Why did you drink so much?"

"I had a glass," he stated. "I have a crowd to disperse."

"You stay there, I'll deal with it." Vetinari followed him nonetheless. The brandy helped keep the drug hangover at bay, he thought. Or come down.

He checked with Vimes.

"No, no, and no, sir. You're not supposed to mix drink and drugs. It's dangerous. Didn't Detritus ever teach you that? I know you came along to watch first aid training once."

"But back when Snapcase was in charge, and there was lots of wine and drugs flowing fast, and you were drunk all the time, did you ever...?"

"No," said Vimes, but sped up. He hit the sixth flight.

Vetinari looked through the banister rails. There was a crowd of multispecies at the bottom. He swallowed.

"Vimes!" he called. "Who are they?"

"The usual. Community leaders and general millers about. We meet with them about once a week."

"I know, I know." He gripped the banister. "Any dwarf grags?"

"No, none. You're safe. I've got the Watch to cover everything. It's just Moist von Lipwig you have to deal with."

Vetinari stopped him about half-way down again. He went blank, and re-shuffled his face. "How do I look? Did you see it?"

Vimes winced. "That was... freaky, sir." He panted. "You still look guilty. It's underneath."

"Yes, Vimes. Blank, it is." He went blank, and slipped into neutral. 

They went down the last remaining three flights of stairs. Vetinari was still in his socks, and the ground became cooler as the main doors were jammed open with trolls.

Vimes cupped his hands, and yelled, "What's all this then?"

The dwarfs jumped back seeing Lord Vetinari. 

"We thought you were dead," said a Madame Sharn. She gave a sigh of relief.

"No, that's just a rumour," said Vimes. He raised his voice, "Will you please--"

"He looks high," rumbled a troll. 

Vetinari sighed. "I was poisoned," he said. "Something to make me sleep."

They stared at him.

"You need that, don't you?" said Madame Sharn. She had a book with her. He suspected it was a micromail fashion catalogue. 

"Sleep, but not retaliate," he added. 

The dwarfs started to laugh. "Had your feet up, did you, sir?" The dwarfish magazines took pictures of his feet. Flashes flared.

The trolls blinked, but some fanned out. "He's alive!" he heard them call outside.

The atmosphere was still tense, but winding down slowly. He tended to have that effect on people.

Moist von Lipwig pushed his way through the crowd until it parted for him. He reached Lord Vetinari.

"So glad to see you alive, sir!" he said. They shook hands. Moist let go quickly, and climbed onto the same step as him, then two higher so that they were the same height. 

"I shouldn't have started this silly challenge, sir," he whispered. "I didn't know it would drive you to drink. Just come in the robe. We shan't mind."

"I have an outfit," he whispered back. "I'm not so sure I intend to wear it."

The dwarfs appeared to have the same idea, and were conferencing among themselves. Vetinari said, "It really was poison injected into me. I couldn't get rid of it."

"I can smell the drink on your breath," said Moist. "You downed the bottle."

Vetinari shot him a look. "I was trying to mix drink with drugs to mellow it out."

A flash went off. Vetinari went blank quick. There was a cheer. He regretted it. 

He held out his hand. "Give."

The dwarf held back. "It's awesome! I've got him looking guilty a bit." He squinted. "I think."

Vetinari sighed. "If you must know, I gatecrashed a mental asylum with the intention of winding them up."

It went quiet. "Why?" asked a dwarf.

Vimes nudged him. "Watch it. They're writing it down."

Vetinari took a deep breath. "To wind them up more over the wedding costume than I was."

The dwarfs said, "There's a word for people like you."

One came forward, holding a pencil. "It's when you blow on other people's candle fat to extinguish them to make your own seem brighter. Sir." 

"Yes, I know," said Vetinari tersely. "I'm sorry."

"Well, they're protected from people like you normally, and the rest of the world from hurting them. That's what dwarfish mental asylums are. The human ones are like a freak show for the paying public."

"No, no. I'm fairly sure I banned them. They were too cruel."

"They are in other cities." The dwarf stepped down to the thunderous sound of axes clapping on shields. The dwarf was congratulated.

Vetinari bit his cheek. "I apologise," he said, bowing. "On behalf of humans, and on all multispecies suffering."

"All right, sir, you don't have to go that far." The dwarf looked pleased, however.

Vetinari wanted the crowd to disperse. He'd said his bit. 

Someone put their hand up. It was a reporter. "What did you drink?"

"Brandy," he replied. "Next question."

"Were you sick?"

"No," said Vimes. "But he swore a shitload."

"Did you sing?"

"No. I prefer... quiet music. I've said this before." He was getting annoyed.

"We don't keep track of preferences," said the reporter. "The humans do."

Someone else put up their hand. A troll.

"Do youse like fashion?"

He shuddered. "No, I have no time for it." They laughed. 

"We're going to get a suit," said one. "We've got bets on. Sure winner."

"What did you get them?"

"A surprise," he replied. "Money."

"Gold, we hope." The dwarfs clustered round. 

Someone held up their hand jokingly. "Pay me too, sir." 

Moist whispered, "You were supposed to pay my taxes, sir."

He whispered back, "Don't push at it, Mr. Lipwig." He swallowed. He watched Moist watch his adam's apple bob up and down.

Vimes picked up on the pause. "That's enough for one day," he shouted. "Go on, shoo!"

The dwarfs and trolls grumbled on the way out. One door shut. 

Vetinari swallowed again, because it was fun. Vimes had picked up on something positive. He stood up a step.

"What have I missed?" he whispered.

Vetinari said, "I'm thinking about sex." Gods, did he say that out loud? He wasn't a teenager any more. "It's this drug," he added.

"Gods, sir. It shouldn't be doing that," whispered Vimes frantically. He glanced down.

Moist smiled. "Who exactly poisoned you? The Strippers' Guild?" He caught up to the swallowing business. "Now, see here," he bustled. 

Vimes looked at the two of them, non-plussed. "Think about Nobby Nobbs," he suggested.

Vetinari felt disgusted. He'd been enjoying himself. "No, Vimes," he said coldly, and switching.

"Good. It's working." 

Vetinari went down, and sat on the top step. He bent over, and fiddled with his robe. Some of the exiting dwarfs watched.

"I have that exact same trouble with skirts now," said Madame Sharn, who he suspected was transsexual. "Sir."

She opened the micromail catalogue. "Do you fancy anything, sir?"

"No, thank you. It's too cold to wear armour. I prefer fabric." 

"It's comfy. Can I tempt you again?" 

"No." She left. 

Vetinari felt a shoe on his back, pressing him down. "Vimes," he tried. "What are you playing at, man?" The pressure lessened.

Vimes said, "I'm trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself."

Vetinari turned round. "Come up with another better idea."

Vimes said, "Blow this. I'm going back to Pseudopolis Yard." 

"It's packed out there," said Moist. "I had to stop a riot with golems."

"Thank you," said Vetinari. 

"We felt it," said Vimes. "The walls shook. Everyone got scared."

"No, that was of the dice, Vimes. And the errant drinking."

"I'm trying to cheer him up. He's getting married tomorrow."

Vetinari looked at him. Moist looked a bit scared. He hoped it wasn't breakdown. He didn't think he staved off his own very well at all. He thought of all the things he could say.

"Come," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you, Mr. Lipwig. I'm sorry."

"Bloody hell," said Vimes. "Do I get one? Don't, sir." He winced.

"That's all right, sir," said Moist, who appeared to be operating on a different front. "I'm sure you won't embarrass the front page too much with... whatever it is you're wearing."

"It can't be as bad as the view from a dwarf," said the last remaining dwarf. "I can see right up the robe." He fled.

Vetinari hmmed to himself. He stood up using the wall as support. He dusted himself down.

"Better?" asked Vimes suddenly. Vetinari couldn't believe the man. He really thought...

Vetinari shook left-handed with Vimes and Moist von Lipwig to stay on a positive note. Everyone thought about sex. 

Vetinari swallowed again.

***

He made it to the seventh flight by himself, proving that he could do it. 

He was triumphant. "Drumknott!" he called, swaying. "I'll be in my office."

Dr. Whiteface's package was in there. He swept in, and got some tubes out. He put it on the back of his hand to test a colour patch, assuming that's what you did. He couldn't find the instructions. 

He gathered the whole package up, and went to visit Leonard.


End file.
